Age of Druids by India Drummond Page A

No matter what, there’d be no going back for at least twenty-four hours, when Aaron had agreed to reopen the gate to this destination. Rory had imagined them camping somewhere as they searched for Ewain, but he didn’t want to stay in this forsaken place. When daylight came, if Ewain didn’t offer them refuge, Rory would suggest finding a suitable spot outside the city. This place gave him the jitters.
     
    They arrived at a large intersection. To the north was a wide, open area with a large well in the centre and a stage to one side. It appeared to be some kind of main square or market. To the south stood taller buildings. Even with moss hanging from the windows, he could tell they’d once been quite elegant with balconies and wrought-iron decoration around the windows. One high window even had remnants of glass. How had that survived all this time?
     
    “Which way?” Rory asked Flùranach.
     
    She pointed ahead. The eastern road had ended, but a wide stair wended up a hill. At the top stood a temple or palace, Rory wasn’t sure which. He smirked. Of course Ewain would pick the best building in town. On the other hand, having high ground did seem smart.
     
    As he stepped up, a piece of the stone stair broke off, causing him to stumble.
     
    Sheng caught his arm. “Careful,” he said.
     
    “Thanks,” Rory said and went onward. The three of them picked their way up the crumbling stair, not trusting the stone railing on either side. A quarter hour must have passed before they got close to the top.
     
    Once they were nearly there, Rory saw a figure waiting in the darkness, standing with folded arms below a large, arched entrance. Soft light poured from behind him.
     
    Rory was about to demand the person identify himself when Flùranach went to her knees. He thought she’d fallen until she whispered, “Have mercy, Father of the Sky.”
     
    “Get up,” Rory said roughly. “Jesus, Flùr. I’ve told you. He’s just a druid.” When she didn’t make a move to comply, he tugged at her will. She managed to resist for a moment, but then her submission came as always, and she rose. Still, she refused to look up and meet Ewain’s eyes.
     
    Taking the measure of the ancient druid, Rory was surprised. He looked better than he expected from Munro and Aaron’s descriptions. Munro had compared him to a burned tree. Sure, the guy looked really old with deep wrinkles, but Rory’d half-expected talons and fangs. “I’m Rory,” he said. “This is Sheng and Flùranach.”
     
    Ewain tilted his head almost imperceptibly. His gaze took in the three of them, registering every detail from each of the talismans hanging around Sheng’s neck to Flùranach’s trembling hands. “Come inside,” he said finally. His voice was deep and rough, as though he rarely spoke aloud. Who would he talk to?
     
    He led them through the ornate archway toward the source of the light. Something rustled in the vines overhead, and Rory was glad to move out of the abandoned city.
     
    What once was probably a mere entrance hall had been transformed. In front of the fireplace were two wooden chairs, looking newly hewn and shaped into the reclining style favoured by the fae. On the hearth was a wooden bowl and spoon, as well as a smaller bowl the size of a teacup. On the mantle above rested a collection of plain stones, the perfect size for small talismans. “Sit,” Ewain said and gestured to the chairs.
     
    Sheng offered Flùranach the second seat, but she shook her head and moved to stand by the fire.
     
    Ewain watched her every movement. He sniffed as though tracking her scent. “Your blood is quite pure,” he said to her.
     
    Without meeting his gaze she replied, “Both my parents are astral fae.”
     
    “Have you skills as well as talents?” he asked.
     
    “Skills, Father?”
     
    “Call me Lord Ewain,” he said. “I’m not your father.”
     
    She blushed. “Yes, my lord druid. What skills do you mean?”
     
    “Can