casting its borrowed light out over the landscape, his shadow stretching long in front of him as he walked. His aim was true. Even now, his feet led him unerringly in the right direction.
Ahead of him, the ward stone stood like a sentry, moonlight glittering over the uncut ridges and folds withinthe ancient limestone. One of four set at each corner of Belfoyle’s boundary, the stone released mage energy that flowed southwest and north in a never-ending invisible wall. No magic-bearing creature could pass through without first appeasing the silent guardian.
Still fifty feet away, he felt its power spreading outward within the earth, pushing up through him like an infinite vibration. Closer, and the mage energy coalesced into a constant pulse like a second heartbeat.
It had been years. Years since he’d exercised his powers. In the beginning, shock and revulsion and self-loathing had led him to deny his
Other
blood. Later, surviving meant leaving no trace. No trail of magic for any to follow. He had lived by his wits and his dagger alone as a
Duinedon
.
Only since returning to Ireland had he allowed himself to draw upon his
Fey
blood. And only then had he come to realize the wraith he’d become. Neither
Other
nor
Duinedon
. Neither living nor dead. A man of naught but shadows.
The way he needed to be if he was to remain free long enough to complete his task.
He placed his palm upon the standing stone and the mage energy burst in a flash of ribboning rainbow color. Numbing his fingers, singeing up his arm with a heart-stopping jolt before burying itself deep within him as it sought to identify in all ways who and what he was.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the space around him. The feel of the grass beneath his boots, the moon above, the wind upon his face, and the push of his blood through his veins. Braced himself for the blasting rip curl of denunciation and refusal.
Nothing.
The caress of welcome sank through him like a softweight, settling itself in the center of his chest. His name whispered in the oldest of ancient tongues.
Son of the house of Douglas. Son of Kilronan.
Breán Duabn’thach
.
If he wanted to, he could follow the path down to the house. Cross the courtyard to the iron-hinged front doors. Wander the familiar corridors or stand as he used to at his bedroom window, staring out over the stretch of ocean below to the far horizon. The stones would not impede him.
Instead, he dropped his arm to his side, stepped back, the mage energy seeping away, leaving him hollow with renewed loss.
Once the Sh’vad Tual was in Scathach’s possession. Once he’d been freed from the
Amhas-draoi
death sentence. Once the threat of Máelodor had been defused.
Would he go home then?
He turned away with a grim laugh.
Not even gamester Jack would take odds on that question.
Upon returning to Dun Eyre, Brendan waited until the house grew quiet. Then, to be safe, he waited an hour more.
Leaving his rooms, he crept down the nearby servant stairs, taking the long way through the gallery.
“As you were,” he quipped, tossing a salute to the rows of long-dead Fitzgeralds as he passed.
Elisabeth’s chambers stood at the far end of this floor. Sliding inside, he took up his seat once more at her dressing table. Opened her jewelry case, hunting for the stone that would set him free of the noose closing around his neck.
He needed to retrieve the Sh’vad Tual and leave.Everywhere he turned, the past reached out to him with clawing, bony fingers. Naught would change for all his wishing. Those dead would remain dead. Their faces forever etched upon his brain like acid upon metal.
Lifting out an inner tray, he smiled his success.
There it was. The Sh’vad Tual.
As he palmed it, mage energy crackled up his arm. Buried itself deep in his brain. Words pounded against his skull in a tongue he, who had studied ancient languages with an academic’s obsession, barely understood. A warning? A threat? Light flashed
Ahead of him, the ward stone stood like a sentry, moonlight glittering over the uncut ridges and folds withinthe ancient limestone. One of four set at each corner of Belfoyle’s boundary, the stone released mage energy that flowed southwest and north in a never-ending invisible wall. No magic-bearing creature could pass through without first appeasing the silent guardian.
Still fifty feet away, he felt its power spreading outward within the earth, pushing up through him like an infinite vibration. Closer, and the mage energy coalesced into a constant pulse like a second heartbeat.
It had been years. Years since he’d exercised his powers. In the beginning, shock and revulsion and self-loathing had led him to deny his
Other
blood. Later, surviving meant leaving no trace. No trail of magic for any to follow. He had lived by his wits and his dagger alone as a
Duinedon
.
Only since returning to Ireland had he allowed himself to draw upon his
Fey
blood. And only then had he come to realize the wraith he’d become. Neither
Other
nor
Duinedon
. Neither living nor dead. A man of naught but shadows.
The way he needed to be if he was to remain free long enough to complete his task.
He placed his palm upon the standing stone and the mage energy burst in a flash of ribboning rainbow color. Numbing his fingers, singeing up his arm with a heart-stopping jolt before burying itself deep within him as it sought to identify in all ways who and what he was.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the space around him. The feel of the grass beneath his boots, the moon above, the wind upon his face, and the push of his blood through his veins. Braced himself for the blasting rip curl of denunciation and refusal.
Nothing.
The caress of welcome sank through him like a softweight, settling itself in the center of his chest. His name whispered in the oldest of ancient tongues.
Son of the house of Douglas. Son of Kilronan.
Breán Duabn’thach
.
If he wanted to, he could follow the path down to the house. Cross the courtyard to the iron-hinged front doors. Wander the familiar corridors or stand as he used to at his bedroom window, staring out over the stretch of ocean below to the far horizon. The stones would not impede him.
Instead, he dropped his arm to his side, stepped back, the mage energy seeping away, leaving him hollow with renewed loss.
Once the Sh’vad Tual was in Scathach’s possession. Once he’d been freed from the
Amhas-draoi
death sentence. Once the threat of Máelodor had been defused.
Would he go home then?
He turned away with a grim laugh.
Not even gamester Jack would take odds on that question.
Upon returning to Dun Eyre, Brendan waited until the house grew quiet. Then, to be safe, he waited an hour more.
Leaving his rooms, he crept down the nearby servant stairs, taking the long way through the gallery.
“As you were,” he quipped, tossing a salute to the rows of long-dead Fitzgeralds as he passed.
Elisabeth’s chambers stood at the far end of this floor. Sliding inside, he took up his seat once more at her dressing table. Opened her jewelry case, hunting for the stone that would set him free of the noose closing around his neck.
He needed to retrieve the Sh’vad Tual and leave.Everywhere he turned, the past reached out to him with clawing, bony fingers. Naught would change for all his wishing. Those dead would remain dead. Their faces forever etched upon his brain like acid upon metal.
Lifting out an inner tray, he smiled his success.
There it was. The Sh’vad Tual.
As he palmed it, mage energy crackled up his arm. Buried itself deep in his brain. Words pounded against his skull in a tongue he, who had studied ancient languages with an academic’s obsession, barely understood. A warning? A threat? Light flashed
Similar Books
