usual mooring places,” Owein said. “Marcus followed her tracks to the high meadow.”
“Where the stone of the Great Mother stands?” Rhys asked.
“Aye. But there her trail ends. At least, Marcus could find no tracks leading down.”
“Where is Marcus now?”
“On the far side of the mountain,” Gwen replied. “With Trevor.”
Rhys’s gaze brushed the high slopes. “I will join them. And send Hefin flying overhead. Perhaps the falcon will see something Owein’s magic missed.”
Gwen placed her hand on Ardra’s head. “Owein and I will continue searching on this side. We’re all to meet here at dusk. I only pray she is found before then.”
They clasped hands and parted. Rhys dispatched Hefin into the sky, then set out at a grueling pace up the path to the high meadow. The strap of his pack bit into his shoulder. He considered leaving it behind, then simply readjusted its weight on his back.
With each step he battled a tide of guilt. If any harm befell Breena, it would be Rhys’s fault. His callous rejection had driven her from the safety of her bed.
He reached the high meadow. The trampled grass gave evidence of Marcus’s and Trevor’s search. The swamps and lowlands to the west were a mosaic of autumn orange and rust. A low line of clouds on the horizon threatened to blot the afternoon sun. Rhys shivered. The wind had picked up. It carried a portent of winter.
He scanned the ground, hoping to find a clue the others had missed, whether magical or mundane. Ashe paced a wide circle around the sacred megalith, the sun succumbed to the clouds. The daylight turned dull, erasing the contrasts of light and shadow.
Rhys closed his eyes and cast his senses, searching inward for his magic. When he again opened his eyes, the golden autumn grass at first appeared unchanged. He whispered a word and a subtle shift occurred in his vision. Glimmers of magic emerged from the earth and stone. The edges of the standing stone appeared translucent, as if a glow sprang from the heart of the rock. Sparkling lines of green earth magic radiated from the base of the megalith in several directions. One path, Rhys knew, led directly to Avalon. Another ran toward the ancient henge of stones that stood on the great plain near Leucomagus.
He searched for remnants of power. A Seer’s aura was pure white. Rhys recognized Owein’s magic, bold and wide. Breena’s auric trail was more delicate. Rhys stood almost in her footsteps. She’d entered the meadow at nearly the same point as he had. She’d then moved in a straight line toward the standing stone.
And then an unknown Druid had slipped from a cleft in the mountain on Rhys’s left. He almost missed the trail. The faint blue sparks the man or woman had left behind were all but invisible. The spell used to conceal the stranger’s presence had been powerful—strong enough to fool Owein and Trevor, and even Gwen, who shared Rhys’s rare talent of discerning Druid auras. But Rhys, unlike his twin, had spent fifteen years following scant trails of magic all over Britain and Hibernia. It was no surprise he’d found what the others had missed.
He straightened, gripping the straps of his pack. The evidence before him suggested a Druid who was very powerful in air magic, as Gwen, and Rhys, and even Penn were. It was a common enough talent—far morecommon than the rare Seer’s magic Owein and Breena shared.
Both Breena’s trail, and the unknown Druid’s, ended at the foot of the Great Mother’s stone. And then…nothing. But that made no sense. He turned away, searching…
Light shimmered on the great stone, at the farthest corner of Rhys’s vision. He swung his head back, eyes narrowing.
The light vanished. Frowning, he tilted his head just a fraction. Again, the glistening outline appeared, glowing silver against the gray-blue stone. Just as quickly, it disappeared.
A portal.
Rhys sucked in a breath. He had not known this stone guarded an entrance to the Lost
“Where the stone of the Great Mother stands?” Rhys asked.
“Aye. But there her trail ends. At least, Marcus could find no tracks leading down.”
“Where is Marcus now?”
“On the far side of the mountain,” Gwen replied. “With Trevor.”
Rhys’s gaze brushed the high slopes. “I will join them. And send Hefin flying overhead. Perhaps the falcon will see something Owein’s magic missed.”
Gwen placed her hand on Ardra’s head. “Owein and I will continue searching on this side. We’re all to meet here at dusk. I only pray she is found before then.”
They clasped hands and parted. Rhys dispatched Hefin into the sky, then set out at a grueling pace up the path to the high meadow. The strap of his pack bit into his shoulder. He considered leaving it behind, then simply readjusted its weight on his back.
With each step he battled a tide of guilt. If any harm befell Breena, it would be Rhys’s fault. His callous rejection had driven her from the safety of her bed.
He reached the high meadow. The trampled grass gave evidence of Marcus’s and Trevor’s search. The swamps and lowlands to the west were a mosaic of autumn orange and rust. A low line of clouds on the horizon threatened to blot the afternoon sun. Rhys shivered. The wind had picked up. It carried a portent of winter.
He scanned the ground, hoping to find a clue the others had missed, whether magical or mundane. Ashe paced a wide circle around the sacred megalith, the sun succumbed to the clouds. The daylight turned dull, erasing the contrasts of light and shadow.
Rhys closed his eyes and cast his senses, searching inward for his magic. When he again opened his eyes, the golden autumn grass at first appeared unchanged. He whispered a word and a subtle shift occurred in his vision. Glimmers of magic emerged from the earth and stone. The edges of the standing stone appeared translucent, as if a glow sprang from the heart of the rock. Sparkling lines of green earth magic radiated from the base of the megalith in several directions. One path, Rhys knew, led directly to Avalon. Another ran toward the ancient henge of stones that stood on the great plain near Leucomagus.
He searched for remnants of power. A Seer’s aura was pure white. Rhys recognized Owein’s magic, bold and wide. Breena’s auric trail was more delicate. Rhys stood almost in her footsteps. She’d entered the meadow at nearly the same point as he had. She’d then moved in a straight line toward the standing stone.
And then an unknown Druid had slipped from a cleft in the mountain on Rhys’s left. He almost missed the trail. The faint blue sparks the man or woman had left behind were all but invisible. The spell used to conceal the stranger’s presence had been powerful—strong enough to fool Owein and Trevor, and even Gwen, who shared Rhys’s rare talent of discerning Druid auras. But Rhys, unlike his twin, had spent fifteen years following scant trails of magic all over Britain and Hibernia. It was no surprise he’d found what the others had missed.
He straightened, gripping the straps of his pack. The evidence before him suggested a Druid who was very powerful in air magic, as Gwen, and Rhys, and even Penn were. It was a common enough talent—far morecommon than the rare Seer’s magic Owein and Breena shared.
Both Breena’s trail, and the unknown Druid’s, ended at the foot of the Great Mother’s stone. And then…nothing. But that made no sense. He turned away, searching…
Light shimmered on the great stone, at the farthest corner of Rhys’s vision. He swung his head back, eyes narrowing.
The light vanished. Frowning, he tilted his head just a fraction. Again, the glistening outline appeared, glowing silver against the gray-blue stone. Just as quickly, it disappeared.
A portal.
Rhys sucked in a breath. He had not known this stone guarded an entrance to the Lost
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