by Shea Godfrey
Cecelia met Clare’s gaze. “Can you tell me if this is my daughter’s blood?”
“If I knew your daughter,” Clare said with regret, “I believe I could, but I don’t know her. I’m sorry.”
Owen pushed to his feet as if in challenge to her words. “But you do know who she is.”
Clare’s expression was filled with sudden caution. “Owen, I don’t think you—”
“She is as my brother was, almost to the core. She is wild and deadly, and filled to the brim with laughter and passion. She dances the steps of Honshi and she knows the secrets of steel. She is as my brother would’ve been, I believe, had the burden of the crown not been his to bear. She does not understand failure, unless she chooses to let you win.”
Clare stared at him, and even in the odd glow of witchlight, Cecelia thought that the High Priestess paled at his declaration. They had been the last words she was expecting to hear.
“And she is Cha-Diah.”
Clare said nothing, and then she laughed in a startled manner. It was followed by silence, though, when Owen did not respond. “I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible.”
“She was claimed by her Cha-Diah mother when she was five years old,” Cecelia said, “within this very maze. There are several portals here, I believe, beyond the one we just came through. A golden mountain panther marked her, and they became Cha-Diah, I promise you.”
Clare stared at her for a time and then smiled a careful smile. “The Golden Panther?”
Cecelia felt her stomach tighten and the light dinner she had eaten some hours ago churned in a dull manner. “Yes.”
“And so she has majik,” Owen added. “Not like Mal then, in that regard.”
“If she is truly Cha-Diah, she has always had majik, Owen. There can be no pairing without majik on both sides, or so the ancient texts will tell you. There’s not much written, but there is that much.” Clare’s expression spoke of an inner debate, but it was over rather quickly. “Owen, Mal had majik, as well.”
“But he did not,” Owen replied.
“Yes, he did. Mistress Antonia felt it in him, the day he spoke for us, and it was no small matter, either. I’m not sure what it might have been, in the end…” She studied the blood and then knelt beside it, sitting back upon her heels. “We were denied the chance to find out. We were denied everything.”
Cecelia heard the pain in her comment, and she realized that Jezara’s High Priestess, Clare Bellaq, still loved him. After so many years and a lifetime lived, her love still burned hot and bright for the fallen Crown Prince of Arravan.
Clare Bellaq held her hands out, her fingers spread wide above the bloodstains. “It is a deep spell and I have no idea if it will work, but I shall try. If your Darry is truly Cha-Diah, I will know if this is her blood.”
The air in the room changed almost at once, the witchlight dimming as she whispered her runes. There was a rumble from beyond the walls of the tower, and once again, something fell from a height and shattered, Cecelia’s shoulders jerking in response. Owen moved along the divan, and she took his hand as they both stared at the floor, neither one of them knowing what to expect.
There was an odd smell, and when Owen’s hand tightened somewhat upon hers, she realized what it was. It was blood, and death, and Cecelia sat forward as the colors upon the floor began to change in a subtle manner.
Clare’s hands began to tremble and her voice grew louder as she worked her spell. The floorboards creaked in a heavy manner as if she was pulling a nail against wood that was wet and rotten. The blood rose to the surface and began to move, filled with substance once more after so long.
Clare’s shoulders rolled, and she pulled in a sharp gasp as her body jerked and her back arched smoothly before she ducked her head. She tipped to the side and braced herself with her left hand, her right still held out and shaking in earnest. The shutters on the north window which were already split cracked further, the needle vine inching along the stones of the wall toward the hearth. Dust rained down from above, and Cecelia and Owen both looked up, the timbers that braced the upper level shaking in their braces.
Owen took a step. “Clare, you must—”
Witchlight exploded from the mouth of the hearth, shining and bright without the golden hues of Clare’s own light. It popped and sang through the tower on a wave of high-pitched sound that knocked Clare to the floor with a violent, brutal shove. Owen turned with the change in his own balance, and he grabbed Cecelia by the shoulders. He pulled her to her feet and embraced her, holding fast.
The witchlight moved upon a turn of deep music, as if a bodhran had been struck far above them and then rained down its echoing, ominous song from the rafters. A second wave hit and rolled in a wash of pure warmth, over and through them all. When it had passed, the tower filled with an eerie silence as if aware of the absence.
Cecelia opened her eyes and took a deep breath, and then she wept.
She leaned against Owen as her knees became weak and she held to his coat, breathing in the glorious scent that lingered upon his clothes. Owen laughed and tightened his embrace as he lowered his face. He kissed her cheek and whispered beside her ear. “There’s our girl.”
Clare Bellaq used the overturned chair to pull herself up and glanced across the room. “It is her blood,” she said in a rough voice. She cleared her throat and leaned against the chair. “And she is alive, or else the spell would not have worked.” She wiped at her mouth with a slow touch and then smiled. “Is that her?”
Cecelia nodded as she stepped back a little and wiped at her cheeks. “Yes.”
Clare’s smile deepened as she turned and sat upon her hip, her left arm limp upon the side of the chair. She looked to floor and said something that Cecelia couldn’t hear.
“Clare?” Owen asked.
“It’s just…nothing,” Clare said in a stunned voice and then laughed. The sound was rich and filled with something Cecelia couldn’t name, though she would’ve said it was pleasure, if she were put to the test. “Sweet Jezara’s corset…” Clare’s voice was still raw and unguarded. “By the hearth, Owen. Beneath the lip of bricks, on the floor.”
Owen turned Cecelia and sat her down upon the divan, and then he walked to the hearth. Clare’s witchlight brightened and chased at the shadows as he leaned down. When he stood up straight, his hands were full.
Cecelia narrowed her eyes and tried to see. “What is it?”
Owen held out his hands, the better half of a fletched crossbow shaft in his left, and a deadly broad head attached to the remaining shaft in his right, both blackened with blood. He lifted his face and his expression was dark, filled with a seething wrath that altered his demeanor completely. “The truth.”
Chapter Nineteen
Darry fell through the darkness, and she kept falling. She fought against it at first, in a panic, unable to breathe or to think, or even to remember. And then she stopped fighting, for she had no air, and she had no thoughts, and she had no memories, either. But she knew something important, just one thing…
She knew but one moment, and it swept through the terrible silence like a sudden summer storm. Within a doorway, within the moonlight, she was kissed by lips that found her through even the absence of time.
She closed her eyes.
The touch upon her mouth was oddly ample for all its lightness, as utterly pleasing as the soft skin that brushed against her face. Her heart was startled, and then it beat in a splendid manner as it swelled with blood to its very limits. Just a breath, in through her nose, and her world was laced with the faraway scent of jasmine.
Darry’s back arched as she filled her lungs.
Her entire body absorbed the impact, and though it was not harsh, it pushed her newly acquired breath right back out again. The ground beneath her was bare as she rolled to the side and onto her knees. She tipped back as the air rushed into her lungs yet again, her left arm swinging out for balance.
The hand that grabbed hers had a grip of s
teel, and as she leaned forward, coughing, she caught a glimpse of blue sky. Darry’s lungs rattled and she fell weakly into a firm embrace.
“Breathe, my daughter…”
Darry felt the warmth of skin against her forehead, and a shower of dark blond hair swept across her vision. It was a woman’s voice and it was one she recognized.
“I have you.”
Darry closed her eyes and did as she was told.
“Can you understand me?”
Darry opened her right hand which was fisted in the rough material of a shirt sleeve. She tapped the arm and tried to stop the world from spinning.
“We are in the Great Loom, and we are trespassing in more ways than one. You may have another minute, but then we must stand. I will help you, but you must find your strength.”
Darry opened her eyes and the faded green homespun beneath her hand gave her something to focus on. She tapped the woman’s arm again and shifted her legs.
“All right.”
Strong arms went beneath hers, and though her legs shook and her stomach rolled in a dangerous manner, she was on her feet.
The scarred woman smiled at her.
She was more beautiful than Darry’s memories of her, stronger in her features and yet softer, for her presence was filled with warmth. Darry’s muscles trembled, and though she wasn’t sure how long they stood there, it was long enough for her to indulge her need and lift her hand. Her touch trembled, but she didn’t care as she ran her thumb down the length of the woman’s heavy scar, as she had done once before in a dream. But it hadn’t really been a dream, not completely, and her knees gave out. Darry grabbed hold and the woman held her up with easy strength, her brown and amber eyes bright with tears.
“You are Tannen Ahru,” Darry whispered.
Tannen’s smile deepened. “Yes.”
Darry wanted to speak but the words wouldn’t come.
Tannen pulled her close, and Darry felt a hand in her hair as Tannen kissed her cheek. It was a kiss filled with love, and her lips lingered until Darry was too overwhelmed to do anything other than savor the attention. When Tannen leaned back, her left hand was solid and supportive at the back of Darry’s neck. “What is your name, my daughter?”
Darry was startled by the question. “Darrius.”
Tannen’s expression was filled with interest. “Darrius.”
“Yes.”
“And who is your Cha-Diah mother?”
“She is a golden mountain panther. Her name is Hinsa.”
Tannen’s smile was replaced by something Darry didn’t quite understand. “Hinsa?”
“Yes.”
“And you named her this?”
“Yes.”
Tannen stared at her with keen eyes. “As it should be, then.” She stepped back a bit, though she did not let go. “Do you think you can stand?”
Darry felt her humor rise up. “I think that might be the least of my worries.”
Tannen laughed and stepped back another half step. “I am letting go.”
Darry took an uneven step to the right but found her balance in a wide stance. Her stomach rolled, and she groaned as she leaned over, grabbed her trousers at the knees, and felt her stomach push toward her throat. Her shoulders jerked, and she pulled it all back before it was too late. She swallowed in a rough manner and her throat burned. “Sweet Gamar.”
Tannen stepped close and set a hand upon her back. “It is all right to be sick. I have done the same…I am going to speak, and you will listen very closely, Darrius.”
Darry spit the taste from her mouth and made a faint sound of agreement.
“Once you have your strength, we must move. When we do, you must listen to me and do everything I say. If you do not, you will become lost in the nothingness beyond the threads of the Great Loom.”
“How much trouble are we in?”
Tannen’s quiet laughter seemed to settle Darry’s stomach somewhat. “How much trouble are you used to?”
“Quite a bit, actually. You will have to do well, if you wish to impress me.”
“I will see what I can do.” Tannen’s words were laced through with happiness.
“Why am I here?”
“You have become sick, haven’t you.”
Darry closed her eyes in resignation. It was not a question. “Yes. I’ve been trying…trying to control Hinsa’s majik, but—”
“It is not Hinsa’s majik that is making you sick.”
Darry opened her eyes at that.
Tannen crouched down and set her elbows upon her knees in an easy manner. “You would not be Cha-Diah if you did not have your own majik, Darrius. Hinsa’s majik is not the problem.” Her expression became somewhat frustrated. “And I am not the one to best explain this to you.”
Darry licked her lips. “Then who is?”
“You are going to take my hand and we are going to travel our thread. I am going to try and show you what you need to know.” Tannen’s sudden smile was brash. “I do not think anyone thought of this complication, a thousand solstice moons ago. No one expects to see the death of their own people.” Tannen reached out and pulled gently at a curl of Darry’s hair as it hung forward. There was a faraway look of love and sadness in her eyes. “There was only one who was prepared for what your presence could mean to us.”
Darry merely thought the question.
“I means that the Fox People might still live, and if the thread is strong enough, like ours…there will be more.”
Darry wasn’t sure what that meant for her and Hinsa, but her heart beat fast at Tannen’s words. “What happens next?”
“Your spirit is going to hitch a ride.”
Darry stared at her. “On what?”
“Not a what, but a who.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Darry gathered her strength and stood up. By the time she got there, Tannen was standing before her.
“We cannot stay long in one place. The Loom has its rules, and there are guardians who walk the threads. They cannot be defeated, but they can be outrun. I will show you what you need to know as quickly as I can, for the longer you stay here, the more dangerous it is for you there. When we are finished, you must find your way home through the darkness beyond. Sorrow’s majik brought you here, for Sorrow carries the souls of the Cha-Diah to the Great Riverlands beyond this world. He could not keep you for long, though, for you are still alive in the other world. I just had to wait.”
“For what?”
Tannen smiled. “For him to drop you.”
It sounded about as reasonable as it did not, and Darry had no idea what to make of it. “How do you know this will even work?”
Tannen looked somewhat pleased. “Because it already has.”
“How do you know I can get back?”
“I don’t,” she answered. “But to have her in your arms for always, one chance is better than none, is it not?”
Darry looked her in the eyes. “Yes.” She felt her stomach gurgle as she realized where they were, the edges of Tannen’s rock dropping away into pure blue sky. The clouds spun about them in a gentle whirl of motion that made her tip to the side. “Oh gods.”
Tannen chuckled as her hand landed upon Darry’s shoulder and held her steady. “You do not like my mountain very much, but I will not take this to heart.”
Darry exhaled and made a face of discontent. “It’s not so much that…” Her eyes narrowed across the plateau.
It had been a several years since Darry had last seen the cloaked henchmen of the dark god Amar walking through the streets of Lokey in their procession of lost sins, but the four cloaked figures who faced her across the distance were doing a fair imitation of what she did remember. She did not think they offered the same blessings, however, as the swaying priests who promised punishment and pleasures alike, in their celebration of indulgence. Shadows moved in their wide, deep cowls, and for a moment, Darry thought she saw…something.
Tannen’s fist tightened in
Darry’s tunic and spun her about. “You don’t like heights?”
Darry was pulled into motion and they were running in the opposite direction. Her legs were uncertain at first, but as they picked up speed, her muscles began to react as they should. The edge of the mountaintop was getting closer as they ran.
“It’s the falling I’m not very fond of,” Darry answered in a tight voice as Tannen grabbed her left arm with an iron grip. “Is there going to be falling?”
“I won’t let you fall.”
They were almost at the edge.
Darry was out of breath and she shouldn’t have been. “Are you lying?”
Tannen laughed beside her. “Only a little.”
Darry’s muscles tightened, and she realized she wasn’t wearing her boots, or even socks. In fact, she was still wearing the clothes she’d been wearing when she had reached for Sorrow.
“I won’t let go,” Tannen promised and her grip tightened even further.
They jumped from the mountaintop into a clear blue sky.
Chapter Twenty
Jessa felt the strong hand wrapped about hers and it was wonderfully warm and gentle. She concentrated upon the skin, rough in some spots and smooth in others. She followed the heat of blood and moved along its path, trying to identify the source.
Her head was filled with pain, but then, there was pain everywhere, and she could feel her majik pulsing beneath it all, barely contained. It was a bottomless ocean of power at her disposal, and churning in it was all of her grief and rage. She felt the tears slip back along her temple, and she felt the softness of the pillow beneath her head.
Darry’s scent was still in her hair, and on her skin, and Jessa saw her again, so still and lifeless on the cold boards of the floor.
Bentley.
“Yes,” he whispered and Jessa opened her eyes. “And before you destroy the manor house completely, she’s alive. Darry is alive.”
Jessa stared at him for a moment and then closed her eyes.
