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This time, the pebble skipped and bounced, rolling into the grass. Lost among the piles of leaves and autumn bracken. And Morgan gave it up as gone. Dropped with a sigh onto a bench to let these whirling thoughts settle, take root.
The easy autumn weather had turned cold, the air carrying an icy crispness that froze her breath, made her nose run. Half-naked trees stabbed limbs of gold and red and green into the gray sky, their tops lost in the low smoke from thousands of coal fires and fog off the river. Ice rimed the edges of puddles and spread a spiderweb of lace across the pa
rk’s reservoir. But not even this glimpse of beauty could blot out the jostle and rub of so many people. So many Other. All crushed within the span of miles. All pounding against her skull like the drone of a million bees.
Could she live here? Would she lose Cam if she couldn’t?
She pulled off a glove, twisted the wolf-head ring as if she could channel her family’s communal wisdom through it. If only Gram were here to talk to. Or Jamys. He always managed to cut through to the heart of a problem. Morgan was all emotion. Driven by feelings. Never by common sense. So was this a case of passion over practicality? Or had her mind simply caught up with her heart?
It was the sound that alerted her first. The far-off echo of a perfect round note. Then another. And soon, the faint chime of bells surrounded her. Coming from nowhere and everywhere.
A movement caught the corner of her vision. Figures passing through the trees nearby. Indistinct, almost murky, the outline of their bodies blurred and ghostlike.
She knew that sound. The sensation of time and place folding in upon itself. Her body’s heightened sensitivity as if she were one big funny bone.
No disapproving Londoners this time.
Oh, to be that simple.
Morgan pressed her hands palm-down onto the frozen stone of the bench. Felt the chill through her gloves. The scratch of her stockings. The rock that had worked its way into her left boot. All real. As real as the true Fey passing like shades through the park. As real as the bells clanging in her head like a toll of doom.
Scathach had lost control.
The Fey had breached the walls.
She followed the disappearing figures, breaking into a run to catch them before they left the security of the heavy trees for the edge of the park. The nearest roads. Her chance to question them lost once they crossed away into the city.
“You,” she shouted, grabbing the shoulder of the last Fey in the group of three, the zing of his touch cracking the air like thunder.
He turned, his raven hair tossing in anger, his silver eyes flashing a warning. He bore the same crystalline elegance of all true Fey, a brittle surface beauty that hid the cruel arrogance marking all their race. “You risk much to approach me as equal, Other.”
The insult tore through Morgan’s lingering hesitations. She faced him, calling on her own high blood to match him spark for spark. “I approach you as one of Scathach’s own. You owe me respect if nothing else.”
His gaze registered shock, but his manner remained as superior as ever. “Amhas-draoi? ’Twas your order’s failures that have reduced us to hunting the Duinedon lands in search of the sword.”
“A sword Andraste lost. Not us.”
His mouth twisted into a sneer of contempt. “Lost? Stolen, you mean. And by one of yours. Your task is over, Amhas-draoi. Leave this to us. We will find the sword. And the Other responsible for its theft.”
“I’ll get you your sword. And, Doran. I only need a few days more.”
“There are no more days to give. Andraste senses Neuvarvaan’s power building. The Other wielding it does not understand the Morkoth forces at work. They will consume him in the end, but by then it will be too late. He will have unleashed an evil not easily checked or turned back.”
She wanted to argue. To fight their arrival tooth and nail. But already she sensed the stares of nearby strollers. The cocked brows and mumbled whispers. To them, she spoke to naught but wind and sky. They couldn’t see the Fey hovering like spirits. Moving with impunity through their world. Not yet. But if Doran weren’t stopped soon, they would. And by then, the collision between Fey and Duinedon would be irreversible. The harm almost as great as an army of Undying under the command of a madman.
No. Right now, they saw nothing. Only a madwoman. And mayhap, she was.
She’d actually been contemplating walking away from the Amhas-draoi. Straight into Cam’s open arms. But there’d be no arms. No world where she or any Other might live with any sense of freedom if she didn’t hold firm now.
The Fey sought to pull away from her and join the others already heading into the street, but she jerked him back. Caught and held his swirling iridescent gaze, though it cost her a headache to do so. “The Duinedon colonel and I will find the sword. I swear on my life. Tell your mistress that.”
He bowed, but didn’t look convinced.
Despite her firm words, neither was she.
“You’re still studying Lord Delvish’s book?”
Morgan wheeled around, her heart in her throat, shocked she’d allowed anyone to sneak up on her. Even Cam, though she’d come to acknowledge that in ways unmagical his talents rivaled her own.
