Chapter Thirty-Three
“What’s happening to Conor? What’s going on?” Ellery demanded, squinting through the deepening gloom.
Aeval bit out an order, quick and sharp. “Go, Maban. Tell the rest. They must feel it already. I’ll see to the reliquary.” Her eyes snapped to Ellery. “And the girl.”
The man vanished, leaving Aeval and Ellery alone at the bottom of the hill, half-hidden from view by the crowd of trees that surrounded the ledged slopes of Ilcum Bledh like supplicants. “Come,” Aeval said. “Bligh draws the magic into himself. We must hurry before he goes too far to return.”
A crackling like air before a lightning strike sounded. Ellery staggered beneath the percussion. “What do you mean gone too far?”
Something was wrong. Something had changed on the hilltop.
She knew war. Been close enough to battle to know the smell of it, the metallic taste of steel and gunpowder, the blood that shook your veins until you thought your heart would burst. And she thought she’d known Conor, thought she’d seen enough to understand his brutal, warrior skills paired with the unimaginable Heller’s shift. But this was different. Conor’s self-command was no less, that precision of movement that spoke of a natural ability perfected by strict training. But the struggle had slowed, spun out as if the air and time around them had been pulled in all directions like taffy.
She grabbed Aeval’s shoulder, spun her around. fey or no fey, she wanted answers. “What in God’s name is happening?”
“Conor has dropped his inner walls to draw the deepest power of the fey in. His magic and ours together can destroy Asher.”
Her gaze leapt to the hill. Watching as Conor dodged between the stones of the quoit, on the attack. His blade flashed in the new-risen moon.
“So this is a good thing?” she demanded, pulling her attention back to the faery.
A flicker of something close to grief passed over Aeval’s face. “It is…”
“But?”
Aeval’s reply was interrupted. The hilltop had taken on a gauzy, misted veil of light. It radiated from the drunken, yawning stones of the tomb, poured up into the sky. The ground shook, and sounds like a chorus of thousands moaned around them. The hair on Ellery’s arms stood up. A sucking wind coiled around her as the light that had shot into the air now spilled down the hill like a running wave, leaping, curling. It would be at their feet in seconds.
Aeval had to shout to be heard. “To gain this power, Bligh must break the ties that hold him within the Mortal world. In all ways, he becomes fey.”
The silver-edged light flowed over them, coming up as far as their knees before spreading out in a shimmering pool. Aeval seemed infused with color, her hair and skin now aglow with the strange flickering ghost-shine.
“Like you?” Ellery’s own voice came out high and tight with strain.
Aeval shook her head. “No. The magic he calls forth is even more powerful and ancient than mine. He may bend it to his will for the space of time needed to defeat Asher, but it will consume him in the end.”
The breath-stealing crush had kept Ellery to short quick pants, almost bringing her to her knees. “He’ll die?” she gasped.
Again Aeval shook her head. “It’s not death that awaits him. He will be a living vessel, housing the magic of the Fomorii, a race of gods and beings older than the fey. We cannot let a possessor of such strength have the freedom to walk among us. He will be…guarded.”
Ellery snatched a glance at the reliquary, now glowing with the same pale, luminous green that had rimed Asher in her bedchamber. “Imprisoned, you mean.” She squared her shoulders. “I won’t let you shut him away like a criminal. That’s worse than death.”
Aeval’s eyes narrowed, but this time she nodded. “Then we must offer the blood.” Drawing forth a curved, bone-handled dagger, she gestured toward the quoit. There was no malice in her gaze, only an infinite weight of years.
Could she really do it? Now that the time had come, her body felt leaden, her blood roared in her ears. She’d seen the men of the forlorn hope; those soldiers first up the wall, first into the breach. Courageous. Foolhardy. A little mad. She was all of those things.
Head high, Ellery started up the hill.
Conor shed Asher’s attack with an ease he’d not expected. Even the roar of voices in his head had dimmed to a tolerable clamor, so that if he chose, he could ignore the relentless chant that stripped him layer by layer of the humanity left to him. He lashed out, pushing past Asher’s wards, connecting with a slide of steel that ripped a wound in the demon’s side.
“Where are your lackeys now, demon?” he sneered. “Deserted you? Like rats from a sinking ship.”
Asher retreated, his face caught in lines of confusion. Beyond, Simon watched. But he remained fixed as stone, neither moving to aid Asher or hinder Conor. His turn would come. If the Fomorii allowed, Conor would use his last freedom to send Simon to the devil. The blood-right was his no matter the connection between them.
A movement below caught his attention. Trespassers on the hill. Were these the Keun Marow? Had he spoken too soon? Barely drawing on his new strengths, he reached out. Touched the minds of those approaching. What struck him stunned the breath from his body. Aeval. Ellery. The reliquary. All three in this place meant only one thing; his sacrifice would be for nothing if he didn’t act to stop her. Aeval must not be allowed to top the rise.
Ellery followed the path up the steep, rocky slope, each step increasing the numbness that began at her fingers and toes before tracking up her limbs toward her heart. A dull echo sounded in her ears, reminding her of the roll of the sea back in her cottage in Carnebwen.
“Go!” Conor’s voice sounded in her head like a blast. He broke free of Asher to stride toward her. “Fool! Leave now!”
He was no more than twenty yards away. And now the change in him was clear. The thick-boned musculature, broadened shoulders, and corded arms of the Heller. His eyes gleaming wolf-gold and ruthless in his tight-jawed face. Bile rose in her throat at the vision of his scarred and bleeding body, wounds that for any normal human would have long ago meant death.
She stumbled to her knees, scraping her hands on the scree, tearing a hole in her gown. Dead leaves whirled up from the ground, rattling in a cold draft of wind that rushed overhead. Behind her, Aeval screamed.
Ellery rolled onto her back, her arms instinctively covering her head as she stared up into a vacant space that until a moment before had contained the faery. Aeval was gone, but the reliquary lay abandoned on its side, the scarred, jeweled face of it staring back at her. The earlier feeling she’d gotten from the casket had grown. Now just glancing at it made her recoil. The brothers grew impatient.
She scrambled to her feet, but the numbness made her awkward. She fell again.
The trees at the bottom of the hill bent their branches in an answering whirlwind. Fought the gathering clouds, allowing the moon to slide free. Dust kicked up by the gusts choked her. Stung her eyes. Scoured her face and arms. Aeval appeared again. The mask of elegance replaced with a fierce, defiant glare. “She will fulfill the molleth. It is so written.”
Ellery ducked her head, crawled toward the shelter of a rocky outcropping scrubbed with bushes.
Conor paused only paces away. “Get her out of here, Aeval. This is naught to do with her.” Even his voice had changed. Deeper. Colder. As if it came from far away or was overlaid by another’s tongue.
Aeval raised her knife. “She desired it. She came to me. I do only as she asks, but even were she unwilling, I would choose her death over yours.”
“It’s not your place to decide,” he answered.
“What you attempt will serve only to deny the Other their greatest hero in an age. She’s insignificant. A small price to pay.”
Aeval flicked out her fingers as if she tossed him something. Mist seeped from the ground. Gray and shadowy, it clung to the earth, spread to shroud the rippling, silver light. Wrapped itself around the reliquar
y, dulling the sense of wild exhilaration it gave off. She turned to where Ellery knelt, beckoning her forward.
Ellery crouched, suddenly afraid to climb from her refuge. To face these twin visions of hell.
“It’s madness, Conor,” Aeval shouted.
“How dare you argue with me?” he roared. It didn’t seem as if Conor had done anything, but suddenly Aeval shuddered, her eyes rolling back into her head before she blinked out of sight.
There came a beat of giant wings overhead. “Like plucking sweets from a child,” hissed a strangled voice from behind.
Ellery screamed as a talon raked her shoulder, another clutching her around the ribs. Then the ground dropped away. She twisted far enough to come face to chest with the leathery, black skin of a beast out of a nightmare. Looking down, she saw the hill receding.
“Asher!” Conor shouted and hurled something at them. It spun end over end, moonlight skimming the red glittering edge, flashing on the basket hilt of Conor’s sword just before it struck.
Ellery screamed again.
The sword struck true, piercing the outspread demon’s left wing. It fluttered uselessly as Asher plunged earthward in a lurching descent that carried him back toward the quoit.
Conor met him, retrieved sword in hand, the power of the Old Ones surging through him like a tidal wave. His gaze flashed to where Ellery lay, clutching her arm. An angry graze bruised her cheek. She met his look, and he flinched at the terror in her dark eyes. Scared of him, was she? To hell with her. He’d warned her. Told her how it would be. He’d no time to be gentle now.
Asher stood crookedly, propped against the tallest of the standing stones. Shed finally of his human form, his bat-like wings swept the ground. He nudged Ellery with a rough kick to the side.
She whimpered, trying to back into a shallow of rock at the tomb’s base.
“Is this who you die for, amhas-draoi?” He struck Ellery again.
A black rage clawed Conor’s heart. “No. She is who you die for.” He pushed with mind and spell, unleashing his new-found strengths.
The magic knocked Asher back. Sent him stumbling beneath the tomb’s overhanging capstone, the force powdering Ellery with crumbling earth and rock.
Why didn’t she move? Get out of the bloody way? Why did he care? That part of him faded as other parts took on new life. The woman was no longer his concern. Woman? He meant Ellery. Surely he meant Ellery. She was…The voice in his head drowned out the thought, propelled him forward.
He advanced, not allowing Asher to use the shadows and corners of Ilcum Bledh as sanctuary. The great standing stones seemed to hum with a voice of their own. A heavy groaning as if angered at being disturbed. As Conor ducked under an eroding corner of the lintel stone, Asher struck with his wicked blade. The steel bit into his shoulder, the barbs tearing more flesh as Asher yanked it free. Conor fell to his knees with a cry of shock, only barely parrying another blow that would have severed head from shoulders. He rolled away, coming up onto his haunches, his own sword out to defend against the physical attack.
Asher merely smiled, releasing his black sorcery into the space between them. He’d no need for sword when magic did just as well.
Wounds reopened, blood again flowed, but Conor’s transformation held the worst of the pain at bay. Not even Asher’s tortures could seep through the Fomorii consciousness taking him over.
He fought back, but exhaustion and injury took its toll. No amount of wizardry could stem the blood loss or halt the sizzling lance of dark energy burning through him. Asher would win. He raised his head, met the startled, frightened eyes of the woman. Such anguish amid such fear. Did she sorrow for his loss, or was it the greater defeat? He liked to think it was grief for him. She looked a comely thing.
“Conor,” she whispered, reaching out a hand. He blinked. Was that his name? The voice denied it. But the voice had lied once already. It had told him he would win. That Asher would fall. He shook his head, trying to remember, but so much was already lost. He’d hold tight to the name. Conor. Conor. That would be the last to go.
Asher reached down, lifted the woman by the collar of her gown, wrapped his arm around her neck, pulling her close. His tongue flicked out as he licked her cheek. She shuddered, but Asher grabbed her hair. Yanked it, forcing her head back, lowering his mouth on hers in a grotesque parody of a kiss, his eyes focused not on the woman, but on Conor. Watching him for a reaction.
She struggled, but Asher tightened his hold around her neck, subduing her.
“I shall break her as I broke your sister,” he taunted. “Ysbel took two weeks to die, the flesh finally melting from her bones. This one looks stronger. Perhaps three?”
“You’ll speak of her no more! Do you hear?” Broken words shouted from somewhere behind them. A man tumbling out of the darkness, bringing a knife down in an arcing slash of silver above Asher. And the simultaneous shriek of demon and man.
The momentary break in concentration was enough. Conor lashed out with the last of his strength. Asher met him head-on, the very air screaming with the force of their magics.
The woman between them bore the brunt as dark and bright mingled within her, warping and altering as it twisted through her, silvering her with light, her skin on fire with a blue-white glow.
The stones’ hum became a roar.
The woman stiffened. In a dramatic burst of shadow and sun, the magic exploded out of her. Into the air. Into the ground. Infinitely more powerful. Infinitely more deadly.
Asher dropped her, his body bearing the mark where she’d touched him like a flaming white brand.
Aftershocks spun out of her as pulses of warped magic. An unnatural twisting of good and evil. They shuddered the hilltop. Shook the combatants to their knees. Cracked the tomb.
The giant stones, old as time, heavy with anger, rumbled and collapsed around them.
Conor flung up an arm to shield himself. But the woman. Ellery. Lurching forward, he threw himself across her just as the great lintel stone crushed them all.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Did she live? She must. The pain was too much for the afterlife—or so she sincerely hoped. Like a fuse that’s burnt to the touch-hole, there was naught to her but cold ash. She’d done her part. She’d set the world alight. Cast back the shadow that threatened it. Now all she wanted was to rest. To sleep.
A voice called her, but it was no voice she recognized, and so she ignored it. Let the dark close in around her. Let the soothing hand of death ease her hurts. Carry her away.
“Back up, Morgan. You’re trodding on my feet.”
“If you’d stop hovering like a biddy hen, perhaps he could work.”
“Stop arguing, both of you. Conor’s not helped by it, and it’s already given me a headache. Sift through and look for Simon. He’s probably over there.” The yellow-haired man pointed to a place amid the debris where one side of the quoit had been torn from the ground as if by a giant hand.
The five huge stones that had made up Ilcum Bledh lay scattered like children’s blocks along with chunks of torn earth, smaller boulders, and ragged splinters of rock. The two that accompanied the healer—a dark-haired man and a female dressed strangely in men’s breeches and shirt—began digging through the crush.
Conor had no time for their squabbles. He had pulled the woman from the wreck of the tomb, her cap of dark brown hair crusted to her face, her body limp and broken. Her left hand lay across her chest, a ring glinting on her finger. So she was married. Somewhere a husband still lived, ignorant of his loss.
Well, she had saved him. He would do what he could to return the favor.
“Conor?” The yellow-haired man turned to him. Conor sensed his worry. His hesitation. The man’s glance fell on his bloodstained body. “Do you have the strength left?”
Conor nodded. “It’s beyond my skills, and Gram’s too far away. Can you do anything?”
“I can.” He carried her out of the rubble. Laid her gently among the meadow grass and
wild heath that blew in the salty air. It ruffled her hair, a strand blowing across her lips. A memory snagged in the tangled folds of his mind. The woman laughing, surrounded by grass like this, her jewel-blue eyes alight with desire. He shook his head, and the vision ran like rain meeting the sea.
“What’s her name?” he asked
The man seemed startled. “But, Conor…” He bit off whatever he planned to say, “Never mind. It’s Ellery. Her name is Ellery.”
A nightingale called in the woods below the hill. Dawn was only an hour or two away.
“Ellery, can you hear me?” Conor put his hands on her. Focused. The pain became his. Carried him away.
Smoke and the thunder of cannon. So loud it shook the bones of the earth. Was this Talavera? Burgos? Where was her father? She’d last seen him near the picket line, shouting at her to gather the horses. Douse the fire. They were overrun. The French coming over the bridge. Through the woods. No time for reinforcements. Just run. Fast as her legs could carry her. Follow the men. Don’t let them out of her sight. But they pulled farther and farther ahead. Disappeared into the fog and the trees. Left her behind. Left her alone.
Lost In You Page 27
