Enough.
“Enough,” he said aloud, more gently but clearly. He knelt by Sophia’s side and spoke into her ear. “Wake up, lass.”
She didn’t respond. Blood oozed from the scratches on her face, that and the motion of her breasts the only signs that she still lived.
Right: sounds might not reach her. He should have expected that. It was no reason to be alarmed. Cathal told himself that as firmly as he’d ever calmed a nervous beast or a new squire. He felt not much more in control than one, nor of much more use.
When a gentle shaking of her shoulders, then a harder one, got no result, alarm looked more justified. When bathing her face in cold water brought no result, Cathal knew he was right to fear.
At the final extremity, holding back as much of his strength as he could and hating himself nonetheless, he slapped the side of her face once, briskly. The mark of his hand turned red, but that silent reproach was the only change. She didn’t even wince in her sleep.
Her aura itself was darker now, and the silver ribbon had gone completely dull. Where it reached Sophia’s face, bands of gray were beginning to ripple out of it.
Cathal swore again, regularly and viciously under his breath in every language he knew. To the tune of the profanity, he picked Sophia’s damp kirtle off its drying place by the fire and wrestled her limp body into it. He thought he managed not to hurt her, though he heard the cloth rip twice; the cloak was easier, yet still a clumsy job. It didn’t matter. They would be enough decency—and enough protection—for the journey ahead, and anything else be damned.
Downstairs, the inn was dark. A few men in the common room snored regularly, but none seemed to wake as Cathal carried Sophia to the door.
Outside, it had stopped raining. That would make his task a shade easier. He hurried away from the building, toward the nearest open space, and only noticed the boy when he spoke.
“What are youdoing?”
The lad was fourteen or fifteen, his eyes huge. A village boy, Cathal thought, probably come to earn a few coins caring for horses, maybe to hear a few stories. He’d have one after this.
Cathal didn’t care. “Enough, please God,” he said, not breaking his stride. In his arms, Sophia weighed nothing at all; a few yards more and he’d be in the trees, and the clearing wasn’t far from that. “Don’t get in my way.”
Of course the boy tried to tackle him. Cathal would have, in his place. It was a valiant effort, and when Cathal flung him off, he hoped the lad didn’t break anything.
He yelled too loudly to be badly hurt, at any rate.
That did it. Everyone in the damned village would be out shortly. There was no time. Cathal set Sophia on the ground in front of him, braced himself, and transformed.
The boy stopped yelling and started screaming.
Dragon form didn’t swear well. The mouth wasn’t shaped for human speech, and the words slipped away from the mind itself. The best Cathal could do, as he carefully picked up Sophia in one claw, was an ongoing hiss. Steam curled from between his teeth and into the night air, and the man who’d come to the door with a lantern almost dropped it.
Cathal leapt into the sky and away, hearing the panic spreading in his wake. It was nothing, he was certain, to his own fear. He knew what he faced, and what he could lose.
* * *
When Cathal landed at Loch Arach, the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, the wind was warm, and he was weary through every scale on his body. The flight had been more peaceful than fleeing through the storm and shorter than he’d feared, and yet it had been too long, as he strained every other muscle to go faster while keeping his forelegs relaxed and his talons away from Sophia’s body. He’d watched her aura keep darkening and her breathing continue, steady and slow, just as Fergus’s had done.
No distance would have been short enough to suit him.
He didn’t bother to hide his return. Douglas was waiting in the clearing and took Sophia into his arms with a startled look but no hesitation. Practically, it was a relief to let her go. Douglas had far more strength just then and was far less likely to hurt her by accident. Cathal squelched any urge to cling.
They headed to the tower as soon as he’d transformed. Cathal gave his brother the story in short sentences, paring it down to the most important parts. He hoped he’d not left anything out; he didn’t entirely trust his mind.
“What can we do?” he asked finally.
“I don’t know.” Douglas entered the tower room, passing Cathal as the younger man held the door, but not looking into his face. “If she was going to the aether on her own, I would say she found trouble there.”
“And?”
Carefully, they placed Sophia down on the table. Douglas took off his cloak and folded it, then slid it under her head. “The cord is still attached to her. If I’m right, that means her soul is yet her own.”
Cathal nodded. He’d seen no silver ribbon coming from Fergus’s head, not even in the few moments when he’d come back to himself. “Can I go there with her?”
“Not you,” Douglas said too slowly and after too long a pause. “Not yourself. Itmaybe, here, that we can send her your strength, but—”
