She nodded and pointed east, toward the rising moon. “He’s powerful,” she whispered. “His presence shines with the strength of many.” Rory didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. The fae all bought into the idea that the so-called Father of the Sky was a god. Until recently, they’d had no idea he was one of the original human druids, called draoidh, sorcerers in the fae tongue. Over centuries and millennia, the truth distorted. No matter that the reality of his origins had been revealed, the reverence was too deeply ingrained.
“Let’s go,” Rory said. They followed the wide path between the buildings, which could hardly be called a road anymore, occasionally stepping around a tree growing through the remaining cobbles. He shivered, sensing eyes watching him. The creatures that had reclaimed this city would be unaccustomed to invaders in their home.
The road darkened when the Mistgate disappeared behind them. Rory steeled himself. No matter what, there’d be no going back for at least twenty-four hours, when Aaron had agreed to reopen the gate to this destination. Rory had imagined them camping somewhere as they searched for Ewain, but he didn’t want to stay in this forsaken place. When daylight came, if Ewain didn’t offer them refuge, Rory would suggest finding a suitable spot outside the city. This place gave him the jitters.
They arrived at a large intersection. To the north was a wide, open area with a large well in the centre and a stage to one side. It appeared to be some kind of main square or market. To the south stood taller buildings. Even with moss hanging from the windows, he could tell they’d once been quite elegant with balconies and wrought-iron decoration around the windows. One high window even had remnants of glass. How had that survived all this time?
“Which way?” Rory asked Flùranach.
She pointed ahead. The eastern road had ended, but a wide stair wended up a hill. At the top stood a temple or palace, Rory wasn’t sure which. He smirked. Of course Ewain would pick the best building in town. On the other hand, having high ground did seem smart.
As he stepped up, a piece of the stone stair broke off, causing him to stumble.
Sheng caught his arm. “Careful,” he said.
“Thanks,” Rory said and went onward. The three of them picked their way up the crumbling stair, not trusting the stone railing on either side. A quarter hour must have passed before they got close to the top.
Once they were nearly there, Rory saw a figure waiting in the darkness, standing with folded arms below a large, arched entrance. Soft light poured from behind him.
Rory was about to demand the person identify himself when Flùranach went to her knees. He thought she’d fallen until she whispered, “Have mercy, Father of the Sky.”
“Get up,” Rory said roughly. “Jesus, Flùr. I’ve told you. He’s just a druid.” When she didn’t make a move to comply, he tugged at her will. She managed to resist for a moment, but then her submission came as always, and she rose. Still, she refused to look up and meet Ewain’s eyes.
Taking the measure of the ancient druid, Rory was surprised. He looked better than he expected from Munro and Aaron’s descriptions. Munro had compared him to a burned tree. Sure, the guy looked really old with deep wrinkles, but Rory’d half-expected talons and fangs. “I’m Rory,” he said. “This is Sheng and Flùranach.”
Ewain tilted his head almost imperceptibly. His gaze took in the three of them, registering every detail from each of the talismans hanging around Sheng’s neck to Flùranach’s trembling hands. “Come inside,” he said finally. His voice was deep and rough, as though he rarely spoke aloud. Who would he talk to?
He led them through the ornate archway toward the source of the light. Something rustled in the vines overhead, and Rory was glad to move out of the abandoned city.
What once was probably a mere entrance hall had been transformed. In front of the fireplace were two wooden chairs, looking newly hewn and shaped into the reclining style favoured by the fae. On the hearth was a wooden bowl and spoon, as well as a smaller bowl the size of a teacup. On the mantle above rested a collection of plain stones, the perfect size for small talismans. “Sit,” Ewain said and gestured to the chairs.
Sheng offered Flùranach the second seat, but she shook her head and moved to stand by the fire.
Ewain watched her every movement. He sniffed as though tracking her scent. “Your blood is quite pure,” he said to her.
Without meeting his gaze she replied, “Both my parents are astral fae.”
“Have you skills as well as talents?” he asked.
“Skills, Father?”
“Call me Lord Ewain,” he said. “I’m not your father.”
She blushed. “Yes, my lord druid. What skills do you mean?”
“Can you hunt? Craft? Write?”
“I read and write eight script languages, but only a few hundred runes,” she said. “I was born in the human realm to a small colony of azuri outcasts on the Isle of Skye. We all learned to hunt and cook, to mend and build. We left when I was still a child, though, so my skills are not what they might have been.”
“Flùranach is chronologically less than eleven years old,” Rory said. “An accident with the time stream caused her to grow up prematurely.”
Ewain went to Flùranach and cupped her cheek. He leaned in and sniffed deeply. “I thought I smelled something about you. You retained the essence of temporal flows. Fascinating.”
“Yes,” she said, keeping her gaze averted. Then, with a shudder, she closed her eyes.
Ewain nodded. “So.” He turned to Rory. “What do you want?”
Rory shifted. He hated these damned swing chairs. He never felt like he was on solid ground, and in the present circumstance, he felt like a turtle stuck on its back, unable to right itself. “What makes you think we want something?”
Ewain chuckled, a strange sound like the rustling of dry leaves. “You’re here. I knew your people would seek me out before long.”
“Aye, well, Munro thought you might know something about an artefact he found in America. The Bleak,” Rory said. The fire popped in the silence as Ewain waited for him to continue. Finally, Rory told him about the strange, ancient gate.
The elder druid’s eyes grew sharp. “Where precisely did he find it?”
“Colorado, I think.”
“Colorado,” Ewain said as though testing the word in his mouth. He scratched his beard and let his hand trail down. Fingering a metal disk he wore on a thong around his neck, he asked, “What makes him think it wasn’t an Otherworld gate? We did have those in Danastai once.”
Rory knew the old guy was fishing for something in particular. He was a canny one, this geezer. “You know as well as I do Otherworld gates aren’t solid on the human side.”
“He tested it?”
“Well, the stones were broken. He drew power from two faeries, one spirit and one astral. The flows unscrambled some runes, but not all of them. Do you know what this gate is?”
“Oh yes,” Ewain said, his tone distant.
Sheng sat forward. “Did you make it?”
“If what your leader discovered is what I believe it to be, I was certainly there. Together, all the draoidh employed our talents to fashion The Way.”
“The Way, my lord druid?” Flùranach asked.
Ewain ignored the question and met Rory’s gaze. “Does Munro plan to try to open it?”
Rory glanced at Sheng, who gave a slight shrug. “Maybe,” Rory said. “Depends. He’s not keen on strange portals these days.”
Ewain barked a harsh laugh. He had direct knowledge of the experience that caused Munro to be so wary. “I’d make an exception for this one,” he said. “But he is wise to be cautious.” After a moment, he turned to Sheng. “What do
you
want?”
“Me?” Sheng shrugged. “I’m just along for the ride. I spend every day learning everything I can. I’m new at this druid thing, and I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to meet you. Your powers are legendary.”
For a second, Ewain looked pleased. For a leathery old git, he had his vanity. “May I see your artefact?” He gestured to the items Sheng wore around his neck. “The stone one with the hole in the centre.”
Without hesitation, Sheng took the piece off and handed it over, his eyes alight with curiosity.
“You wield air?”
“Wield might be too strong a word,” Sheng said with a chuckle.
Ewain returned the small stone, then took a stylus from his pocket and offered it to Sheng. “Add a rune for each of the four cardinal directions as you would a compass.”
Leaning toward the fire to get better light, Sheng did as Ewain suggested. When he’d finished, he ran his thumb over the small stone.
“Now, on the reverse, inscribe runes for ingress, egress, push, and pull.”
“I don’t know the first two.” Sheng furrowed his brow. “Will
passage
work?”
“The chosen symbol must imply direction. A passage works both ways.”
“Entrance and exit?”
“Better,” Ewain said.
Sheng worked while Rory watched the old man, who kept an eye on Flùranach the whole time. Oddly, Rory didn’t feel jealous. He hadn’t slept with her in months, not since before she turned on Aaron and used her astral magic against him. Since that day, she’d been almost completely under Rory’s control by virtue of the bond. Having sex with her in this state would have felt wrong, not that he could muster any attraction for her anymore. He honestly had difficulty believing he’d once thought he was in love with her. And now, his choices were to either control her with the bond, build her a jail cell, or have her flows of magic completely severed, which would mean she wouldn’t be of any use to them.
“Now,” Ewain said. “Direct your influence through one cardinal direction and one command.”
Rory watched as Sheng frowned with concentration. A gust of air sent sparks from the fire in every direction and pushed the flames aside in a puff. “Nice,” the Aussie druid said with a grin.
Ewain nodded his approval. “You can push air out to create a shield, but you must practice to make it work in all directions at once. If you had an orb rather than a disk, you would add the runes for up and down as well.”
“Down? Then could I use it to hover?”
Ewain chuckled. “Perhaps, but stability would be an issue, especially with such a small focus. You’d be better off building a steady line of immovable foci and activating them as you moved. It would require much time and practice, even for that to work. You’d be more likely to launch yourself into a hedge.”
Sheng returned the stylus. “Thanks,” he said.
Ewain tilted his head. “I know what
you
want,” he said to Rory.
“Yeah, the gate,” he said.
The elder’s eyes shifted to Flùranach. “You keep her on a tight leash.” Before Rory had a chance to explain, Ewain said, “I can give you what you desire most if you do something for me.”
“What do you have in mind?” Rory said, his curiosity piqued in spite of his reservations.
“I need an artefact. If you bring the piece to me, I will use it to help Munro restore The Way and show
you
the path to freedom.”
Only for an instant was Rory tempted to play dumb and ask what Ewain meant, but the old man wouldn’t be fooled. Somehow, he had detected the magical injury from Flùranach’s attack on him several years before, the scars of which meant he would never bond with anyone else. “I don’t think what you’re suggesting is possible,” Rory said.
“Why not? I have seen wounds that cannot be healed. Yours is not one of them.”
“You’re saying the damage can be undone?”
“I cannot take away your anger or pain, but I can restore the temple that houses the bond.”
“I could bond with another faerie?” Rory sat forward. He’d given up hope a long time ago. When Flùranach stole his bond, they’d both been damaged. He’d believed he would never be whole. It wasn’t supposed to be possible.
“If I had the Cup of Cultus, yes.”
Rory sensed anguish in Flùranach’s mind, pulling at him, but he gave her will a jerk with his thoughts. She whimpered but managed to rein in her emotions. Controlling her had grown easier, and part of him hated that fact, hated himself. The idea of being free of her tempted him. But if not him, who would keep her in line? The druids needed her. He said as much to Ewain.
“Nonsense,” the elder druid responded. “With the Flute of Souls I gave Munro, he can sense druid magic. Over time, you will learn to craft more. Every one of you could have the ability this female possesses.”
Rory hadn’t thought to ask how Munro knew Huck’s sister was a druid. He must have used the flute. Excitement overtook Rory’s thoughts. He would be free. “Where is this Cup?”
Ewain took a small piece of stone from the mantle. “Stone is not my favoured element,” he said, a bitter edge in his tone. With his stylus, he inscribed an intricate rune. Rory watched, fascinated. It was as though Ewain told a story all in one character. When the elder druid was finished, he handed the token to Rory. “The Mistgate can take you to the proper place.”