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Ignoring his question, she knelt at the base of the tallest stone. The ground was trampled. Torn. She closed her eyes. Traced the gouged dirt. Plucked a blade of wilted yellow grass, twirling it between her fingers. Circling outward, she followed the faded evidence of struggle. Time had passed. The marks left by men were scarce and told her little. But enough.
“Four men. Mayhap five. They came on horseback.” She pointed toward the north. “Up through the ravine to avoid anyone on the cart track.”
“You can tell all that from a few dusty smudges and a piece of gorse?” His disbelief was evident in the tone of his voice.
She’d been right to follow her instincts. It was obvious Cam couldn’t be trusted with the truth. But disappointed anger flared within her. At herself for doubting. At Cam for making it all so hard. She stood up, whipping around. Shot him a withering glare, wishing it had the power to scorch the look of doubt from his face.
It must have conveyed every ounce of her fury because he stepped back, motioning her to continue.
Taking a deep breath—as much to calm herself as to prepare for the scrying—she closed her eyes, placing both hands palm-flat against the stone. “Gweles. Klywes. Bos.”
She used the words to strengthen the focus, but there was no need. She staggered under the overwhelming images and emotions. Teasing the separate threads apart to reveal a clear picture took more concentration. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Throbbed up into her throat. Her skin prickled as the lightning flare of mage energy sparked and flashed through her body. Fear took her over. Claimed her for its own.
She was there. She was Traverse.
Chapter 8
Stars gleamed high and white in a black sky. Ropes lashed him at ankle and waist. Chest and neck. They chafed and burned as he struggled. Blood snaked from a cut on his scalp, and his head hurt from the blow that had struck him down.
He squinted, trying to clear his vision. But that only made his head hurt worse.
Men emerged from the stones. Stepped from the darkness to take form, wraithlike around him. Uniformed. Masked.
His panic increased. His heart strained. A wild pounding shook his limbs.
An enormous man stepped from the group, a sword carried erect in front of him as if on display. Death shone from his pale eyes. A ruthless self-assurance weighted his step….
Doran Buchanan.
Morgan knew him by many names. Amhas-draoi. Other. Now—enemy.
Morgan knew who she’d see, but still the shock of him standing mere feet away frayed her ties to Traverse. Her knowledge became his just as his terror fed her own panic.
Dark mage energy rippled off the goddess blade. The force of it enough to send a chill slicing through her.
She fought the urge to sever her connection to the stone. She needed more. She would hold out a little longer. She knew she could. Swallowing a breath, she forced herself to sink back into the memory….
Doran approached, his weapon drawn.
Traverse screamed. Fought harder, but the bonds held him fast. Cut off his air until he sank against the ropes, coughing.
Doran spoke, his face wavering in and out of focus.
A trick of the light? A result of the crack on his head? His features shifted and warped, never resting. Young. Old. Blond. Brunette. Bearded. Clean-shaven.
Morgan concentrated on ripping through the glamorie. The confusion of faces slowed. Settled. Held still. She had only seconds left.
Doran held the sword aloft. The black speech of the Morkoth dropped from lips curled back in vicious anticipation.
The pounding of her heart vibrated through her. Traverse’s terror had become her terror. But she wouldn’t look away. She remained locked on Doran’s face and not on the weapon aimed at her heart.
Heavy-lidded eyes. Dark hair. A scar down his left cheek. And most revealing of all—sergeant’s stripes.
All this she glimpsed as Neuvarvaan was drawn back. The final incantation whispered to the sword’s Morkoth creators.
Morgan fought to break the link holding her in the moment. But she hadn’t counted on the tangle of mage energy. Too many forces hallowed the stone. Too many conflicting pulls on the deep magic bound to this sacred place.
She scrambled to protect herself from what she knew was coming. Braced her body and her mind against the explosion of past and present colliding. The sword bit dead-on into her chest. Tore through her heart. Pinned her to the stone.
