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On and on it went, image after image in a blur of life. Dark oceans, wild stars, a quiet village as still as a photograph. An old woman’s face, ravaged with tears. A small boy sleeping under the shade of a chestnut tree.
And even when the images faded into color and light, the power sang. It flooded him, a river of wine. Cool and clean. It hummed still when the globe was clear again, tossing the flames of the candles into his eyes.
“It’s the world.” Cal’s voice was soft and thick. “Here in my hands.”
“The heart of it. The hope for it. Power gleams there. In your hands now.”
“Why?” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Why in my hands, Bryna?”
“I am the guardian of this place. My heart is in there as well.” She took a slow breath. “I am in your hands, Calin Farrell.”
“I can refuse?”
“Aye. The choice is yours.”
“And if he—Alasdair—claims this?”
She would stop him. It would cost her life, but she would stop him. “Power can be twisted, abused—but what is used will turn on the abuser, ten times ten.”
“And if he claims you?”
“I will be bound to him, a thousand years of bondage. A spell that cannot be broken.” But with death, she thought. Only with death. “He is wicked, but not without weaknesses.” She laid her hand on the globe so that they held it together. “He will not have this, Calin. Nor will he bring harm to you. That is my oath.”
She stared hard into his eyes, murmuring. His vision blurred, his head spun. He lifted a hand as if to push back what he couldn’t see. “No.”
“To protect.” She laid a hand on his cheek as she cast the charm. “My love.”
He blinked, shook his head. For a moment his mind remained blank with some faint echo of words. “I’m sorry. What?”
Her lips curved. He would remember nothing, she knew. It was all she could do for him. “I said we need to go.” She placed the globe back on the pedestal. “We’re not to speak of this outside this room.” She walked toward the door, held out a hand. “Come. I’ll pour you that whiskey.”
7
That night hisdreams were restful, lovely. Bryna had seen to that.
There was a man astride a gleaming black horse, riding hard over hills, splashing through a bright slash of river, his gray cape billowing in a brisk and icy wind.
There was the witch who waited for him in a silver castle atop a spearing cliff where candles and torches burned gold.
There was a globe of crystal, clear as water, where the world swam from decade to decade, century past century.
There was love sweet as honey and need sharp as honed steel.
And when he turned to her in the night, lost in dreams, she opened for him, took him in.
Bryna didn’t sleep, nor did she dream. She lay in the circle of his arms while the white moon rose and the shudders his hands had caused quieted.
Who had loved her? she wondered. Cal, or Caelan? She turned her face into his shoulder, seeking comfort, a harbor from fear on this last night before she would face her fate.
He would be safe, she thought, laying a hand over his heart. She had taken great pains, at great risk, to assure it. And her safety depended on the heart that beat quietly under her palm. If he did not choose to give it freely, to stand with her linked by love, she was lost.
So it had been ordained in fire and in blood, on that terrible night a millennium before.
For a thousand years we sleep, a hundred years times ten. But blood stays true and hearts are strong when we are born again. And in this place we meet, with love our lifted shield. In the shortest night the battle will rage and our destiny be revealed. My warrior’s heart his gift to me, his sword bright as the moon. If he brings both here of his own free will, we will bring to Alasdair his doom. When the dawn breaks that longest day and his love has found a way, our lives will then be free of thee. As I will, so mote it be.
The words of Bryna the Wise, lifted high the blazing castle walls, echoed in her head, beat in her heart. When the moon rose again, it would be settled.
Bryna lay in the circle of Cal’s arms, listened to the wind whisper, and slept not at all.