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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.
Hot air seared her lungs. She fought to breathe. Hands steadied her as a flask was held to her lips. She spluttered against the burning liquid.
“Careful, Ruan. She’s waking.”
A voice cracked her skull like an egg. She moaned. What had been in there? Pure blue ruin, by the way her eyes felt as if they’d been sucked from her sockets. The rest of her left for the crows. She moaned and pushed it away.
“Bloody hell, I think he’s done it,” the voice said again.
“Done what?” she croaked, struggling to sit up. To open her eyes that seemed glued shut by a film of mud and dust and filth. The confining hands fell away.
She looked around. Not the Peninsula. This was England. Cornwall. Ilcum Bledh.
Jamys knelt beside her, an arm still propping her up, the vicious flask in his hand. Ruan watched, relief and worry mingled in his quick, appraising eyes. He glanced to where Morgan stood, stern and unforgiving, staring down the hill. Recent memories washed past the older. Now she remembered. The reliquary. Asher—she ignored the sick churning in her stomach—Conor.
She grabbed Jamys’s coat, her fingers trembling. “Where is he?” She swallowed. “Tell me he lives.”
“It was he saved you. I’ve never seen the like.” Awe colored his voice, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You were all but dead, and Conor brought you back.”
