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The squire gnashed his teeth and urged his horse on, matching Dom’s pace. “I do. Let me come.”
But Dom put out a hand and clicked his tongue, stopping Andry’s stocky horse in its tracks.
“It must be me,” the immortal said, even as every nerve ending lit with terror. He swallowed back his fear, trying to press it down into nothing. “Stay with Corayne,” Dom added, his green eyes flicking to her. She stared at them from her horse, face tight with worry. “Keep a watch on the sky, and the wind. It will change quickly if a dragon is close.”
Another horse pulled out of the line, joining the pair. Sorasa glowered from the saddle and threw back her furred hood, her short hair hanging around her face.
She sneered at Dom. “And where do you think you’re going?”
The immortal angled himself away, barely looking at her. It was easier to keep moving than stop and give Sorasa a chance to join him.
“It’s half a day’s ride to the temple from here,” he said, the horse quickening her pace. “I’ll report back as quickly as I can. Like I said, keep a watch on the sky.”
Sorasa’s voice dropped to a snarl. “Dom—”
But he was already gone, his horse galloping beneath him, the autumn leaves spiraling in his wake.
After a few miles, Dom stopped to vomit into a nearby stream. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and splashed his face, letting the cold water shock him back to life. A sudden weight pressed down on his chest, as if a stone lay there, and he struggled to breathe against it. He was no stranger to panic, but it threatened to overwhelm him now, blurring his vision and slowing his reactions. His heart thumped a ragged tempo. The water helped a little, and he found some rhythm again, heaving long gasps in and out. He swung back into the saddle, spitting out the last sour taste. Luckily, the stout Treckish horse had a good temper and kept on at a solid pace, covering the rocky ground with sure legs and steady hooves.
Come home, Domacridhan.
The voice sent a bolt of lightning down Dom’s spine. He straightened, eyes wide, and searched the forest around him, hunting for any sign of his aunt’s magic. He had not seen a sending in decades. He almost didn’t recognize the magic at all, the voice seeming to come from within his own body rather than the world around him.
But the Monarch of Iona’s voice was unmistakable.
Isibel?he thought, calling out to his aunt.
She said nothing, but he could feel her smile, cold and small. He smelled Iona through the gray branches. It was the scent of rain and yew trees, moss, mist, the city’s old stone. Home in a single breath. He nearly wept for the memory of it.
My beloved nephew, come home.
Then her white figure wavered between the tree trunks, a pale shadow failing to fully take shape. Grimly, he urged his horse on. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the edge of her face, a long nose and stern brow, gray eyes, blond hair trailing into nothing. Her magic could not truly reach him here. He was too far away, or the nearby Spindle was too strong. She existed only in echoes. And those were almost enough to ruin him.
I cannot,he answered, his thighs tightening on his horse. The beast responded in kind, quickening her pace. It wasn’t enough to outrun the sending, which carried along beside them, a wisp at the edge of his sight.
Her voice wavered like her image.The bonds between the realms grow thinner. The land of Allward will fall.
Not if I have anything to say about it.Dom furrowed his brow, squinting through the trees. He saw no sign of corpses or skeletons, no cursed army of the Ashlands. He couldn’t even smell them. The hill beneath him rose steadily, with the infernal clearing on the other side.
This is our chance to go home. To find the Crossroads. To open all the doorways.
Dom loosed a low snarl of frustration. His aunt used the same argument in the throne room of Tíarma, many months ago.You’ll die trying,he thought,and doom the rest of us with your foolish hope.
Something broke in Isibel and she gasped, halfway between a scoff and a sob.Where is Ridha? Where is my daughter?
In the saddle, Dom flinched, pulling on the reins. The horse slowed beneath him as his body ran cold, his fingers turning toice. Fear flooded his veins, matched only by the terror in his aunt’s voice.
I do not know.
Isibel’s sending flickered, bright with desperation.I cannot reach her. Is she with you?
He felt her anguish even through the sending, distant as her magic was. It mirrored his own pain as he thought of his cousin for the first time in many weeks. He tried to remember her that day in Iona, proud in her green armor, an immortal princess with the world at her feet. He hoped she was not yet a corpse. The weight on his chest increased tenfold, his throat tightening.
Evil awakes in this realm.Her voice took on an echo, growing further away.I can feel it coming.
Dom grasped for Isibel with his mind, willing her to stay. The sending came no closer, lingering in the trees, beyond his reach.
The evil is already here, my lady,he pleaded, throwing all his rage and desperation toward her, hoping her magic could carry it back. He thought of the dragon, somewhere in the Ward. And Taristan was even worse.You helped birth it years ago, when you made one brother a prince and left the other to become a monster. All for what? The hope of the old empire? Cor reborn? The way to Glorian Found?
