She poured more of her magic into those dark strands, feeling it flow out of her in a rush. Weakness began to flood her limbs. Still, she didn’t stop. There was too much riding on this for her to give in. The people of Skye needed her, and she needed Arran’s payment if she was going to get home and fix her life. So she gritted her teeth, reached deep inside herself to the magic that had lain dormant there for so long, and used it to weave a skein of golden threads across the dark strands of the magical web.
Or, at least, that’s what she tried to do. Her repairs held for perhaps a few seconds before they snapped and dissipated into the darkness.
In frustration, she pushed her consciousness ever closer to those dark holes in the magic. If she could just figure out—
But she moved too close. Suddenly the void reached out to grab her and she was falling down, down, down into darkness.
*
Arran did notlike this place. Oh, he respected it of course, and as laird of this land he observed the expected rituals at midsummer and midwinter, but it still unnerved him.
If he closed his eyes, he fancied he could almost hear whispers just beyond hearing and feel the thrum of energies far beyond his ken. The place made him feel small, like he was some insignificant speck in themighty cosmos and that compared to the powers that slumbered here, his life was as fleeting and ephemeral as a butterfly’s.
He shifted uneasily, stroking Bran’s nose, and watched Jenna. What was she doing? Not a lot, it seemed to the naked eye. She was standing close to the rock, both palms pressed flat against its rough surface, with her eyes closed. She hadn’t moved or spoken a word for the last ten minutes, although her eyelids fluttered as though she were dreaming.
He considered asking her what she was doing but then thought better of it. It was probably not wise to interfere with a MacFinnan spellweaver when she was doing… whatever it was she was doing.
Suddenly her lips parted and she let out a tiny gasp. Then she collapsed, puddling onto the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
A shot of alarm went through Arran and, dropping Bran’s reins, he ran to her side and knelt next to her, his knee sinking into the springy turf.
“Lass?” he asked urgently. “Jenna?”
She lay on her back, limbs splayed at awkward angles, her eyes closed. She had gone pale. No, worse than pale. She had lost all color, and there was a faint blue tinge to her lips. A rime of frost had formed across her eyes, her long eyelashes sparkling with silver. He pressed a hand to her face then snatched it back when he found her skin was as cold as ice.
With a muttered curse, he ripped off the brooch that held his plaid at his shoulder, pulled the garment off, and quickly wrapped it around her, tucking it close like a cocoon. She flopped around like a doll as he worked but she didn’t wake.
The alarm turned to a spike of fear that turned Arran’s insides cold. “Lass!” he called, shaking her shoulders. “Wake up!”
She did not respond. Hand shaking slightly, he pressed his fingers against the icy skin of her neck and was relieved to find a pulse,although it was weak and fluttering like a trapped bird. He looked around, searching for anyone who might help them, but they were alone. Except for Bran, there was not another living thing in sight.
“What have ye done to her?” he shouted at the towering face of the rock. “What have ye done?”
His fear gave way to anger. Anger at his helplessness. Anger at whatever had done this to her. Anger that it was he who had brought her here and caused this to happen in the first place.
He had no idea how to help her. Battlefield wounds he knew how to deal with, but this? This was far beyond his expertise. He had to get her back to Dun Tabor, and fast.
“Hold on, lass,” he muttered as he scooped her up. “Hold on.”
He hurried over to Bran and draped the unconscious lass over the saddle while he mounted. Once in the saddle, he rearranged Jenna’s inert form until she was sitting in the saddle leaning against him, with her head lolling back against his chest. She didn’t stir the entire time and despite the plaid that now wrapped her, he could feel the cold from her skin seeping into his chest.
He ignored it. The urgency boiling in his gut would have to be enough to keep him warm. Clamping one arm firmly around her waist and holding the reins with the other, he kicked Bran into an urgent gallop. Perhaps responding to his master’s mood, or perhaps just eager to get out of this unsettling place, the gelding needed no prompting, and little guidance from Arran.
At a breakneck pace they sped along the base of the glen and up onto the trail that led south to Dun Tabor. He knew galloping at this pace was reckless but he also knew he had no choice. Jenna was a dead weight against him, her head lolling with the movements of the horse, and he was sure he could feel her slipping away from him inch by slow inch.
No, he said to himself.I will not lose her!
With this determination burning in his veins, and pushing Bran tohis very limits, they reached Dun Tabor in less than half the time the journey had taken them this morning. He thundered through the village, Bran’s hooves sending up sprays of mud, Arran bellowing at people to get out his way, and then clattered through the gates and into Dun Tabor’s courtyard, not stopping until he pulled a sweating and lathered Bran up outside the doors.
Seeing his urgency, several of his men came running, including Mal, back from his scouting mission.
“What is it?” Mal asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Take her,” Arran barked.
He handed Jenna down to Mal, jumped to the ground, and then took her back.
“What happened?” the big man asked.
