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The child called Odelna followed slowly behind.
“Morgan.” Draven’s voice was the harsh metal grate of a sword sliding from a sheath.
He cleared his throat.
“Morgan,” he said again.
The woman made no response.
“Look at the marks on her,” he murmured. “Theatropacouldn’t remove them completely and she was forced to drink it for more than ten years.”
He sniffed at the air in the chamber.
“Someone used magic here. A great deal of it.” He looked back down at the woman. “Was it you?” He shook his head, his expression grim. “Someone knew you would be powerful one day, didn’t they? Just who are you really, Morgan Pendragon?”
He raised a hand and laid it over the woman’s heart. “Still beating.” His voice was husky. “So strong, despite everything. Morgan, do you hear me?”
He clenched his jaw. “Your bastard brother couldn’t finish you off, but that treacherous prick somehow managed this much. He’s not here now though, is he? What did you do to him?”
He glanced a second time at the pile of ash by the pillar, then rose to his feet and walked towards it. Leaning down, he picked up something from the ground. A piece of wire.
The little girl walked up beside him and slipped a small hand into his.
He looked down at her in surprise. “What is it, Odelna?”
“That was her name. Once, but no longer.”
The voice that emerged from the little girl’s mouth was not the sweet trill of a child, but the dry rasp of a crone.
For an instant, Draven’s face contorted in shock. Then his eyes cleared. “You. I should have known.”
He leveled his gaze at the child. “Is it really you? Odelna is...?”
“She left this body some time ago,” the ancient voice replied.
Draven nodded, then ran a hand over his face wearily. “And I saved you. When I might have saved her. When you might easily have saved yourself.” He looked steadily into the child’s eyes. “What was this? A test? A game?”
The little girl shrugged. “A bit of both.” She looked down at the woman on the floor beside them. “She’s dying.”
Draven swore. “I’m well aware.”
The child regarded him expressionlessly. “A little life yet remains. What would you have me do with it?”
Draven’s eyes flared. “A choice?”
The child with the old woman’s eyes gave a small smile. “Her power might yet be yours.”
He scowled back at her. “Not that.”
“You have no wish for it? And yet I see the lust for power in your eyes. Is that not why you desired the sword?”
He gazed at her coldly. “If you can see that much, then you know precisely why I wanted it. Where is the blade?”
The child gestured to the woman on the floor. “This one found it. Fetched it.” She pointed to the pile of ash. “That one took it. Killed her.”
“She’s not dead yet,” Draven growled. Yet when he looked down at the woman, he could no longer discern the rise and fall of her chest.
The little girl nodded. “Not quite.”
