Clever he might not be, but Morcar did possess the ability to make decisions. “Then why do we stand here speaking like fools?” he demanded. “Let us go at once!”
“Do you know the place, then?”
“Of course I do,” he snapped impatiently. “Do you mean to say that you don’t? You, the great Dewin Mawr?”
“I know the time, but not the place,” Malachi confessed. “And I shall be glad to let you rub it in my face as much as you wish later. We’ve not the time now. Where is the demon to arrive?”
“At St. Just-in-Roseland, in Cornwall. That is where I believe it must be, considering the clues I was given. One of them was given to me by Philistia. The cover of a book she’d borrowed from Hookham’s had been changed to read The Life of St. Justin. This was written in English. Beneath it was a clue in the ancient tongue, which I’ve not been able to make sense of: All become one, or all will fail.”
Malachi turned and met a sea of wide-eyed faces. He and Sarah locked gazes and she gave a silent nod.
“The other clue given me was a rose,” Morcar went on. “I surmised that the place must be St. Just-in-Roseland.”
“A rose,” Julius murmured. “Of course. That was the flower Miss Daray spoke of. And the other clue, about sacred grounds at Glain Tarran … St. Just-in-Roseland is built nearly on top of a site that served as an ancient burial ground for Druid priests. Why, even the church there continued to embrace Celtic Christianity long after other churches accepted the recognized Church.” He searched the list, which he’d picked up from a nearby table. “And it’s listed here. The church tower contains a bell bearing the figure of Charles the Second. St. Just-in-Roseland must be the place.”
“Serafina would have realized it immediately,” Niclas put in, “for she was born in Cornwall.”
“She’s been laughing at us all this time,” Malachi told Morcar, “knowing that neither you nor I had enough to go on to figure out both time and place. If only we’d come together sooner, we might have been ahead of the game.” He sighed. “The Guardians are testing us, Morcar. Little though either of us likes it, they clearly mean for us to work together to defeat the demon.”
“I care nothing about the cythraul,” Morcar said. “I only want Philistia safely back.”
“You’ll never manage it without help,” Malachi said. “Without all our help. The Guardians have brought us together to combine our powers.” He nodded toward the wizards and sorceress sitting behind them. “What do you say, Morcar? Do I have your word that you’ll lend your powers to sending the cythraul back to the spirit world?”
Morcar didn’t have to consider the bargain—one he never would have dreamed of making only days ago. “If you’ll help me regain Philistia, yes.”
They clasped hands, sealing the bargain before the Guardians, and made ready for the fast journey to Cornwall.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The group of extraordinary wizards and one sorceress, as well as Sarah, who reminded Malachi that he’d promised her she’d be allowed to view the spectacle, and Dyfed, who refused to let his pregnant wife go without him, arrived a short distance from the churchyard at St. Just-in-Roseland. It was a small edifice with a single bell tower rising into the dark night sky and a garden courtyard surrounded by walls. Just beyond the church was a large inlet where sea waves crashed against the shore.
“That must be where the bell is,” Malachi murmured, nodding to the tower as he unfolded his cloak to allow Sarah to step free. “I should like to see the accursed thing once the cythraul’s gone, considering the trouble we had finding it.”
“Silence,” Steffan commanded, holding up a hand. “The demon has already come,” he stated in dire tones.
“Philistia,” Morcar murmured, his voice filled with fear. He quickly began to move in the direction of the church, stumbling on the uneven ground.
“Morcar, wait!” Malachi said fiercely, but it did no good.
The next moment a great flash of light filled the walled courtyard, followed by a piercing scream and then a deeper, horrified cry. The group came to a halt.
“Gather together!” Malachi shouted, grabbing Sarah and pulling her hard against him. “Quickly!”
“Oh, bother,” Desdemona muttered, slower than the others because of her ungainly belly. Dyfed swept her into his arms and carried her into the small circle that had formed.
Morcar alone pressed on, ignoring the command. If anything, he began to move more quickly than before. Muttering a curse, Malachi sent a wave of air that threw the larger man to the ground, and pinned him there with the same spell of protection that he cast about those circling him.
It was done just in time, for with another burst of light a figure rose into the sky from within the garden, floating in the air above them.
“Philistia,” Sarah whispered. “Dear God.”
The small, delicate figure was scarcely recognizable as Sarah’s younger cousin, for she emanated a fierce power that caused her body, her skin and eyes, and even her unbound hair to glow as if a lantern had come alight within. Streams of light poured out of her fingertips and from the toes of her now-bare feet. The dress she wore had split at the seams and barely clung to the body it covered. Her eyes, burning like fire, gazed in all directions as her body slowly spun, taking in her surroundings. Sarah was certain the demon would see them standing just beneath it, but whatever spell Malachi had placed over them had clearly made them invisible even to such a piercing gaze.
The figure turned toward the sea, just beyond the garden gate, and floated downward. When its feet touched earth the ground shook and the air about them blew hot and fierce, but they were kept safe from harm. The cythraul began to walk toward the waves, which began to crash loudly against the shore at its approach. With each step it took, light flashed and the ground trembled.
With a quick movement Malachi brought down the barriers of protection and, grasping Sarah by the hand, moved silently toward the walled courtyard. Everyone, even Morcar, followed. The demon, farther away now, appeared not to notice. It kept moving toward the water.
“Where is it going?” Sarah whispered as they pushed into the walled garden.
“I don’t know,” Malachi said, pulling her into the darkness. “Demon spirits cannot pass through water, but a powerful one can command the waves. It may intend to destroy the church by water and return the land to its pagan state.”
“No, my cousin,” Steffan whispered from somewhere behind them. “Do you not remember what Julius Tamony said? This was an ancient burial ground for Druid priests long before the Christians claimed it. Unless it is stopped, the demon will call their spirits back to life to be his servants.”
“Grand,” Kian muttered. “And with no master to guide it I suppose the cythraul intends to set itself up as a god.”
“But where is the one who came to claim the demon?” Christophe asked. “Where is Serafina?”
“She is dead,” Steffan said, falling still of a sudden. “I feel it. And there is another one, as well.”
“Dead?” Morcar repeated. “It’s not possible. The cythraul is to serve the one who brings it a mere mortal for possession.”
“This demon has a mind of its own, clearly,” Malachi said.
They found the bodies in a small clearing. Malachi created a light to aid the glow of the moon. Serafina lay with her arms above her head, as if she’d been about to defend herself from the cythraul’s strike. Her servant Tego lay over her in a failed attempt to save his beloved mistress.
Kian knelt beside them and felt for life. “Steffan’s right,” he said after a quiet moment. “They’re dead. It’s almost too incredible to believe. Serafina Daray was an extraordinary sorceress. She arrived in time to meet the cythraul and brought a mere mortal for its possession. Why would it kill her?”
“Desdemona, we’re leaving,” Dyfed stated firmly. “Now. Take us home.”
“Don’t be foolish,” she told him. “If we don’t finish with the demon tonight, none
of us will be safe. Not if it could kill one of us so powerful as Serafina.” She looked to where Malachi stood, solemnly gazing at the bodies. “But are there enough of us, Malachi? Should we not send for others? If we only had enough time, my father would come from America and bring all of our most powerful magic mortals with him.”
Malachi met her worried gaze. “The Guardians saw fit to send only us. It must be enough. Now we must decide our course of action.” He glanced at each of them in turn. “The cythraul will run wild unless it accepts a very powerful magic mortal as its master. It expects to be claimed by such a being. I do not know why Serafina, powerful as she was, was rejected. It may have to do with some other cause. Perhaps because she was a woman.”
“Then the cythraul is an idiot,” Desdemona said fractiously, rubbing her back where it ached.
“Whatever the reason,” he went on, “one of us must try again. A man, this time.”
“I’ll do it,” Morcar said.
They looked at him sharply.
“Never,” Kian said.
“Not a Cadmaran,” Dyfed added. “You’ll use it for your own devices.”
“I should be the one,” Christophe said. “I have no wife yet, nor children.”
“Neither do I,” Morcar replied with anger.
“Nor I,” Malachi put in more quietly.
“Philistia is my unoliaeth,” Morcar stated. “It is for me to save her from the cythraul. I swear aloud before the Guardians that I care nothing for the demon’s power. I want it gone far more greatly than any of you now.”
“Unoliaeth?” Kian murmured. “You, Morcar?”
“With Philistia Tamony?” Dyfed added with disbelief, scoffing. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true, however,” Malachi said.
“Poor girl,” Desdemona said beneath her breath.
Morcar ignored her. “I love Philistia. She is mine. I claim the right to rescue her from the cythraul.”
“You might die in the attempt,” Steffan said quietly.
“Then I die,” Morcar replied. “It is little enough after what I’ve done to her. If I can release her, I’ll gladly wait for her in the spirit realm.”
“Malachi, don’t trust him,” Dyfed argued. “He’s a Cadmaran. Remember what he’s done to us, how he has hated and harmed the Seymours since becoming the head of the dark Families. He’s vowed to destroy you.”
“Remember what he did to Julia,” Kian added. “And to Desdemona. He unleashed the athanc at Tylluan and caused great harm. The beast would have killed hundreds of mere mortals if it hadn’t been stopped. It did kill Loris,” he added with greater heat. “If the Guardians hadn’t shown me the way to retrieve her soul and heal her body, I would have lost my unoliaeth. Because of him.” He glared at Morcar with unconcealed wrath.
“I do not forget,” Malachi said soberly. “We have been at odds for most of our lives, Morcar. I have no cause to trust you. If I had not felt the power of the unoliaeth in Philistia, I would not trust you.”
“I spoke my intentions before the Guardians,” Morcar said. “We waste time comparing past deeds. I don’t say I am a different man, or that I regret any harm I’ve visited upon my enemies. But while we stand here arguing, the cythraul takes Philistia farther away. If you’ll not help me, then I go alone.”
“I believe you,” Sarah said suddenly, stepping forward. “Will this help?” She tugged the Donballa out into the light. The golden amulet shimmered with its own light, further illuminating the darkness.
“No,” Malachi said firmly. “You are never to remove it, Sarah. You gave me your vow. It is all that protects you from the cythraul’s power.”
“But will it help?” she pressed, moving to stand before Steffan, whose blind gaze had lifted to the skies. “The spirits empowered it to keep the wearer safe from the cythraul’s possession. Will it help Philistia now, though she’s already been possessed?”
“Steffan,” Malachi growled warningly.
“I cannot do other than speak the truth,” Steffan said. “If the Donballa can be placed upon Philistia’s physical body, the cythraul must depart and seek another. There is but one other mere mortal present,” he went on, “and that is you, Sarah.”
“I’ll keep Sarah safe,” Desdemona vowed. “If the demon can be forced from Philistia’s body, Malachi and the others can surely send it back to the spirit realm. No harm will come to Sarah while both my child and I guard her.”
“I have a terrible feeling about this,” Dyfed murmured faintly, sounding ill. “I really think we ought to leave the Donballa here and send Desdemona and Sarah home.”
“Never,” Desdemona said. “Else you men will muck it up, as you always do without our help. Isn’t that so, Sarah?”
Sarah was already pulling the Donballa from her neck.
“No,” Malachi said tightly.
“She’s my cousin,” Sarah told him, struggling to maintain her composure. “But she means so much more to me. Philistia is as my own sister. If she should be lost when I might have done something—”
“She’ll not be lost,” Morcar stated flatly.
Sarah held the shining amulet out to him. “If you bring her back to us, my lord, I shall be thankful to you all of my life.”
Morcar carefully put the Donballa in a pocket. He looked at Malachi. “We must hurry.”
Malachi nodded. “Sarah, you and Desdemona remain well behind us, with Steffan and Dyfed. You’ll know if we’ve failed, or if we’ve succeeded.” To Desdemona he said, “If we fail, take Sarah, Dyfed, and Steffan and journey quickly back to London. Gather as many magic mortals about you as you can. Call your father to come from America, and every wizard in Europe who might be of help. Steffan will know how to contact them quickly. You will be the head of the Seymour family if Kian and I should perish, Desdemona, and your daughter after you.”
“It won’t come to that,” she insisted. “Kian has not yet become Dewin Mawr, and you know what the prophecies foretold.”
“Even so,” Malachi pressed.
“It will be as you have said,” she promised.
“We must hurry!” Morcar said. “She goes farther away with every moment that passes.”
The demon stopped by the edge of the sea and gazed out to the fretful waves. It stood very still, emanating light.
Malachi and Morcar had moved a little ahead of the others.
“Act with care,” Malachi said quietly. “If it was able to kill Serafina, it will kill you just as easily.”
“I know what to do,” Morcar vowed. “It is an evil spirit. I know far better than you how to deal with such beings.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Malachi admitted. “But it will be a danger even if you manage to get the Donballa over Philistia’s neck. Kian, Christophe, and I will move quickly to send it away, but you’ll be very close and fully exposed.”
“I don’t care,” Morcar said. “Only swear to me that you’ll keep Philistia from harm.”
“I swear it.”
“Malachi,” he said more uncertainly. “We have long been enemies, and you owe me nothing. But will you tell her …”
“What?”
“That I didn’t mean the things I said to her when we last parted. That I loved her, even then, and it was fear of that love which made me so unforgivably cruel. Not that I expect she should ever forgive me for what I did. But tell her … I would have been the proudest man alive to have her as my countess. Above all other women.”
“I’ll tell her,” Malachi said. “And then you must do so, as well, when you’ve both returned.”
“I will,” Morcar said, steeling himself. “Today and every day after this, God willing.” He drew in a deep breath. Released it. “I keep remembering when we were boys, of a sudden. We were friends of a sort once, were we not, Malachi? During those times when all the Families came together every few years?”
“When we were very young, Morcar,” Malachi said. “We used to run off and fish while the adults sat about dully
making agreements and decisions. Do you recall?”
“Yes,” Morcar replied. “Before we cared about who we were or the burdens that were to be laid upon us. I remember it.”
“As do I. Fondly, as it happens.” Malachi held out a hand, “Take care of Philistia.” Morcar took the offered hand and held it. “Make certain she’s always happy and content.”
“I will.”
Morcar nodded, then released him. Turning, he began to walk in the direction of the demon. The sound of the ocean’s crashing waves filled his ears; the smell of salt filled his nostrils.
The cythraul rose into the air at Morcar’s approach, turning to face him as he came nearer. Its voice, when it spoke from Philistia’s mouth, held the sound of a multitude.
“Who are you?” it demanded.
Morcar forced himself to keep moving. No dark spirit would admire fear at such a moment. He drew upon his years of being the leader of many dark beings to carry him through.
“I am Morcar Cadmaran,” he said loudly, firmly, striding onward. “I come to claim the power of the cythraul.”
The demon regarded him for a moment, at last saying, “You are not as the other one. I do not bow to an unworthy creature.”
Morcar understood at once why the cythraul had been so insulted by Serafina’s claim upon it, despite her vast powers, or having brought a mere mortal for its possession. It had killed her for being animantis.
“I am superum,” he stated. “And made higher than you. I am worthy to be your master.”
“You are a dark lord,” the cythraul stated with approval. It began to drift to the ground.
“I am Morcar Cadmaran,” he said aloud, never faltering in his stride. “You will bow to me and serve me.”
Philistia’s feet touched earth, though the demon’s voice, when it spoke, was suddenly uncertain.
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