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had. As soon as he heard the door close loudly, Connor clutched his eyes and slid from the chair, down from the dais and onto the floor. His stomach clenched, and he heaved out bile as he writhed against it. Struggling not to scream, he curled up tightly and waited, praying it would end soon.
    Minutes or hours passed, and the burning began to ease in his eyes. Connor remained on the floor, taking in deep breaths of air, trying to rid himself of the pain, but it was not done yet. A few more minutes, and he could remove his hands from his eyes. The burning was bearable now. Almost.
    More time moved by as he waited for the pain to cease completely. This time it lasted longer than before. And it was more intense again, as though the respite two months before had never happened. Now, he waited to regain his strength before trying to stand, or even sit. Each time his recovery slowed with each use of his power.
    When Connor could feel both the coldness and the hardness of the stone floor beneath him, he tried to sit up. His head pounded with dizziness, but he managed to get to his knees. Then, feeling the floor with his hands, he got his bearings of his position in the room.
    Opening his eyes would do no good, for they were useless now and would remain so for days. This was the price of his “gift.” Kneeling there, he pushed away all the thoughts of and prayers for release that plagued his days and nights and especially these moments after he used his power. There was no release, as far as he could discover, and nothing that could intervene in his descent into blindness. Connor fought not to wish that the recent attempts on his life would succeed and free him from all of this.
    He heard the voices of those outside his chamber, some arguing with Ranald, others pleading. It would be to no avail, for until he could see, he could not have the visions they wanted, or needed, or begged for. Pushing his hair out of his face, he righted his cloak and sat back on his heels. The hallway would quiet, and Ranald would leave as soon as he cleared out those who still pled their case. It was as he was about to gain his feet that he heard the sound.
    Someone was in his chambers.
    Someone had witnessed his descent from Seer to blind man.
    Someone was moving from one place to another behind him.
    He turned his head quickly to try to gauge the intruder’s location and his distance from him, but the first blow hit him then, a strong kick that shoved him to the floor once again. The dagger’s entrance into his shoulder was quick and silent.
    Connor grabbed for his shoulder and tried to call out, but the vision left him with little strength. Any sound he could make would be masked by the busyness and noise of those in the corridor outside his chambers. Rolling away from his assailant, he tried to make it to the door. Another kick to his ribs, and he collapsed on the floor.
    Of all the ends to his life he’d considered, especially as the assassins had varied their attempts, murder by an unseen attacker was not one of them. Now as he waited for the death blow, he wondered what had brought this about, and why now. Was it another of the Fae’s strange ironies? An enemy he knew not? The weight of someone pouncing on his chest ended all speculation, for he could not breathe.
    With his right arm made useless by the dagger’s wound, he tried to grasp with his left, but after another slashing wound to his forearm he lay helpless on the cold floor. Connor felt his attacker grab his tunic and slice it open down to his waist. He waited for death to come.
    Instead, the attacker poked his bleeding wound and then whispered something he could not understand. A gasp, one that sounded strangely feminine, was followed by another whisper, and then he smelled the metallic odor of blood as he was touched again. This time something was smeared over his face and onto his chest.
    “Who are you? Tell me,” he gasped. He would at least know the reason for his