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held her
ground. Och, but a firebrand, this one.
    She
opened her mouth to speak, her finger pointing when both her words and her
gesture were forgotten. Her head tipped. “D’you hear that?”
    He
heard naught but the leaves, the distant hum of the rite. If he listened even
harder, the very distant hush of the sea. Or did he only imagine hearing the
sea, knowing it was close? The rite grew silent, and Quinlan didn’t know
whether to be relieved or concerned.
    “They’ve
ended the ceremony, lass. We must not linger.”
    “There,”
she said. “Maera?” She scanned a nearby thicket, palming her blade. “Maera, can
you hear me?”
    Then
Quinlan heard it, too. A small whimper.
    Ailyn
walked like a huntress searching out prey. Quinlan joined her search, his gaze
scouring for the form of a woman. He listened for another sound. Another
whimper.
    “Maera,
please, can you hear me?”
    The
pain in her voice—the alarm—wanted to grip him, too. A disturbing
thought echoed in his mind. The rite ended, but it had stirred something dark.
He could feel something turning the air. His mind couldn’t reason it, but his
gut warned louder and louder—something was coming.
    “There!”
He saw movement. Ailyn looked where he pointed. She rushed to the spot before he
could warn her to take care. He joined her side. Despite the darkness, he
recognized the scarlet of blood. The woman’s pale gown was soaked in it.
    “Maera,
no. Please, no. What have you done?” Ailyn touched the woman’s shoulder,
pulling it, but rather than to lay her on her back, to view it.
    Two
long gashes broke the creamy surface of Maera’s skin, the source of the
bleeding. Ailyn tore at her tunic and pressed it to the cuts to stanch the
bleeding. All she seemed able to say was, “No.” Over and again. A command.
“No.”
    The
woman’s face was ashen, her breathing shallow. She lay on brilliant, filmy
fabric that was also covered in blood. No, not fabric. More like…wings. A
costume of some sort.
    The
prickling air stole in around them. An alluring warmth came with it. The
sensation could not be what he imagined. Surely, merely a storm brewed on the
horizon. “Here,” Quinlan said, and interceded. He scooped up the woman and
wrapped his mantle around her. “We canno’ stay here, lass. I feel a rain
approaching. We must get to shelter.”
    She
pinned him with a wide-eyed stare. “You don’t understand. Her win—she’s
hurt. I must get her back. Now. She’ll die if I don’t.” Emotion choked her
words. “Please, help me get her to the water.”
    “The
water? Are ye mad? She’ll drown to be sure. Nay.” He tightened his hold on the
woman his arms. He’d be damned if he’d let her bleed her death. Tir Conaill was
too far on foot. Had he not followed Ailyn, he’d have an inkling of where his
horse might still be tethered.
    Ailyn
pulled at his shoulder, shaking her head. “You cannot take her. You do not
understand. Please!”
    “Follow
if ye wish, lass, but I’ll not see her drowning and if ye stay, find you they
will. The worshippers or the storm. But they’ll not find her.”
    He
strode east, away from the thickening heat that filled his gut with dread. The
woman lay as a dead weight in his arms and the ground seemed to conspire
against his feet. Nay, ’twas the darkness trying to stop him.
    On
a pained groan, Ailyn followed, breathing hard. Again, she pulled on his bicep,
coming to stand in front of him, making a sorry attempt to take the woman from
his arms. “She’ll die!” Authority rang in her words.
    A
deeper authority overruled hers. Her fear and pain stabbed him with guilt. But
if he trusted his feel for the land he’d known all his life, he’d find their
way to his steed, then onward to Breanne’s. “I’ll fetch her a healer. You’ve no
call to trust me, Ailyn, I ken that. But I’m asking you to anyway.”
    The
dark feeling and warmth neared enough to feel like a bog pulling his legs under
him. Quinlan growled,