Lands.
The Lost Lands lay between earth—the realm of men—and Annwyn, the Otherworld of the gods. Few mortals traveled to those shadowy midlands. Even fewer returned. Owein and his wife, Clara, were among those who had survived such a journey. If Breena had entered the Lost Lands, that would explain why she was now invisible to Owein’s magic. The deep magic of that mystical place hindered every other magical force.
He bent and touched the ground. Its warmth surprised him. The standing stone itself was even hotter. Deep magic pulsed against his palm like a heartbeat. The unknown Druid had cast a powerful spell to open the portal. Blue sparks gathered at the edges of Rhys’s hand. The stranger’s air magic recognized him.
That was a very good thing. Without pausing to consider the wisdom or folly of his intentions, Rhys opened his mind to the remnants of the spell. The power of it nearly knocked him off his feet. By the gods! This magic was far deeper than any he’d ever encountered.
Its sheer strength took his breath; his heart commenced pounding as if he’d run down the mountain and back. The spell was awesome in its simplicity and elegance. The shape of it, the color, the Words—all the facets of the spell were familiar to Rhys, though he’d never thought to join the elements in quite this way.
Swiftly, he re-formed the spell and repeated the Words. Then he inhaled sharply. There was a single instant in which he might have pulled back; he did not.
The stone heated, searing his palm. Gritting his teeth, he battled the reflex to snatch his hand away. The hard surface softened. The essence of the rock dissolved into flame.
He felt himself fall.
“Dear Goddess,” Breena whispered.
The Great Mother’s standing stone had not changed. Neither had the meadow, nor the slope of the hill. The autumn wind still blew from the north, carrying the scent of the sea. To the southwest lay the swamps.
But…Gwen’s mists! They were gone. Breena stared blankly at the sacred isle, rising steeply from the water. Naked to every enemy’s eye.
Dread blossomed. “What have you done?”
The words emerged as a thready rasp. Her mouth felt as though she’d been chewing new wool. Her body felt strangely heavy; her limbs weak. It would take nothing for her legs to collapse beneath her.
Myrddin clasped her upper arm. “Take deep breaths. The magic that opened the passage is difficult for a human body to absorb, especially when one travels through the portal for the first time.”
Breena’s chest expanded painfully with the effort of breathing. Her knees wobbled. The old Druid pressed his staff into her hand. She leaned on it heavily as he helped her to a low, flat stone at the edge of the clearing. Once seated, she wondered if she’d ever have the strength to rise again
Myrddin did not seem to be similarly affected. The old Druid knelt before her, chafing her ice-cold hands. His eyes were grave. Breena was too tired to protest when he laid his hand on her head and whispered a spell. His light magic was powerful; immediately, she began to revive.
He rose and smiled down at her. “Better, my dear?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Vigor seeped slowly back into her limbs, but her chest remained tight with fear. Dear gods! Myrddin’s power was beyond her imagining. He’d obliterated the mists! How could she have been so foolish as to trust him?
“How…how did…you do it?” Her parched tongue barely formed the words.
“Here. Have some wine, child. It will help.”
She looked down. Myrddin had placed a wineskin into her hands. For a moment, she couldn’t think what to do with it. The old Druid uncorked the spout and guided it to her mouth. The wine was unwatered, and very bitter. She pushed it away, choking.
“This…this is more vinegar than wine.”
“I know. Very little decent wine makes it across the channel from Gaul these days. But somehow I did not think you would appreciate a skin of
The Lost Lands lay between earth—the realm of men—and Annwyn, the Otherworld of the gods. Few mortals traveled to those shadowy midlands. Even fewer returned. Owein and his wife, Clara, were among those who had survived such a journey. If Breena had entered the Lost Lands, that would explain why she was now invisible to Owein’s magic. The deep magic of that mystical place hindered every other magical force.
He bent and touched the ground. Its warmth surprised him. The standing stone itself was even hotter. Deep magic pulsed against his palm like a heartbeat. The unknown Druid had cast a powerful spell to open the portal. Blue sparks gathered at the edges of Rhys’s hand. The stranger’s air magic recognized him.
That was a very good thing. Without pausing to consider the wisdom or folly of his intentions, Rhys opened his mind to the remnants of the spell. The power of it nearly knocked him off his feet. By the gods! This magic was far deeper than any he’d ever encountered.
Its sheer strength took his breath; his heart commenced pounding as if he’d run down the mountain and back. The spell was awesome in its simplicity and elegance. The shape of it, the color, the Words—all the facets of the spell were familiar to Rhys, though he’d never thought to join the elements in quite this way.
Swiftly, he re-formed the spell and repeated the Words. Then he inhaled sharply. There was a single instant in which he might have pulled back; he did not.
The stone heated, searing his palm. Gritting his teeth, he battled the reflex to snatch his hand away. The hard surface softened. The essence of the rock dissolved into flame.
He felt himself fall.
“Dear Goddess,” Breena whispered.
The Great Mother’s standing stone had not changed. Neither had the meadow, nor the slope of the hill. The autumn wind still blew from the north, carrying the scent of the sea. To the southwest lay the swamps.
But…Gwen’s mists! They were gone. Breena stared blankly at the sacred isle, rising steeply from the water. Naked to every enemy’s eye.
Dread blossomed. “What have you done?”
The words emerged as a thready rasp. Her mouth felt as though she’d been chewing new wool. Her body felt strangely heavy; her limbs weak. It would take nothing for her legs to collapse beneath her.
Myrddin clasped her upper arm. “Take deep breaths. The magic that opened the passage is difficult for a human body to absorb, especially when one travels through the portal for the first time.”
Breena’s chest expanded painfully with the effort of breathing. Her knees wobbled. The old Druid pressed his staff into her hand. She leaned on it heavily as he helped her to a low, flat stone at the edge of the clearing. Once seated, she wondered if she’d ever have the strength to rise again
Myrddin did not seem to be similarly affected. The old Druid knelt before her, chafing her ice-cold hands. His eyes were grave. Breena was too tired to protest when he laid his hand on her head and whispered a spell. His light magic was powerful; immediately, she began to revive.
He rose and smiled down at her. “Better, my dear?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Vigor seeped slowly back into her limbs, but her chest remained tight with fear. Dear gods! Myrddin’s power was beyond her imagining. He’d obliterated the mists! How could she have been so foolish as to trust him?
“How…how did…you do it?” Her parched tongue barely formed the words.
“Here. Have some wine, child. It will help.”
She looked down. Myrddin had placed a wineskin into her hands. For a moment, she couldn’t think what to do with it. The old Druid uncorked the spout and guided it to her mouth. The wine was unwatered, and very bitter. She pushed it away, choking.
“This…this is more vinegar than wine.”
“I know. Very little decent wine makes it across the channel from Gaul these days. But somehow I did not think you would appreciate a skin of
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