Darcy's gaze, which had been fixed on Wickham, flickered to Elizabeth for a beat. It was not a smile, but an unspoken glance of gratitude that passed between them before his attention returned to the others. He then drew in a breath and gave a stiff nod to Wickham, an acknowledgment of the information, if not the man.
“Given the stakes, we would be remiss to disregard your words,” he said.
With that in mind, they ate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
When Elizabeth saw the hired mounts being prepared, her heart sank. Across the yard, Colonel Fitzwilliam and Wickham sat their horses with the casual confidence of men born to the saddle, a display that did little to soothe her own rising fear. She had never possessed the temperament for riding, and the prospect of navigating this blighted land on an unfamiliar beast was terrifying.
Her steps faltered as she neared the mounting block. The size of the mare, the scent of horse and leather, seemed to root her to the spot. She saw Darcy turn, his own expression shifting from purpose to a quiet concern as he registered her hesitation. He crossed the yard at once, his purposeful strides closing the distance between them.
“The terrain is too treacherous for a carriage, and the ruins are too far to walk to. I have had the steadiest mare set aside for you.” He did not wait for her reply, but simply gathered her cold, gloved hands in his own, his grip warm and reassuring. The strain between them seemed to fade, rendered insignificant by this simple act of concern.
Elizabeth’s gaze darted to the mare.
“We can proceed without you, if you would prefer to remain,” he offered.
“No,” she said, sounding more determined than she felt. “I will go.”
A look of admiration touched his features. “I should have known. An attempt to dissuade you only strengthens your resolve.”
The warmth of his approval was a balm not only to her nerves, but to the small rift their earlier dispute over Wickham had created. “It is a failing I have never been overly anxious to correct.”
“Nor would I have you do so,” he said, his voice losing its last trace of the brittleness. “I will remain at your side. You have my word, I will not let you come to harm.”
From somewhere within her, she found a smile. “Then should I fall, may I depend upon you to intervene before I make too rude an acquaintance with the ground?”
“The ground will not have the pleasure of an introduction,” he responded solemnly.
“You make a bold promise, sir, for I am a notoriously poor horsewoman. You may find yourself called upon to honour that sooner than you think.”
“Then I shall have to remain very close, shall I not?” he said, as a smile tugged at his lips.
The ride was as difficult as she had feared; her seat was uncertain, her hands unsteady on the reins. Yet Darcy was a constant presence by her side, a calming word of instruction when she faltered, a firm hand on her rein to guide the mare over a treacherous patch of ground.
She had dreaded the journey, but found herself arriving at the ruins with a strange reluctance for it to end. He brought their mounts to a halt, and for a moment they stayed as theywere, letting the weight of the desolate scene settle around them. Then, with grace, Darcy dismounted and came to assist her.
“The journey was not too trying for you?” he asked softly, as his hands found her waist to help her down. He did not release her at once, but held her steady for a moment.
She shook her head, grateful for the solid ground and even more for the solid presence of him before her. “I am well.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he said, his expression turning grave as he looked past her towards the ruins. “Then let us ascertain the nature of the corruption. What do you sense here?”
She closed her eyes, pushing past the oppressive surface-level decay, and reached out with her senses. It was like lowering a hand into stagnant mud. The immediate sensation was of sickness, one that had settled deep into the earth. But beneath that crushing weight, there was something else. Faint. Almost entirely extinguished, like the last ember of a fire.
A memory of light. A whisper of the immense power that had once flowed through this place.
“The corruption is deep,” she said, opening her eyes. “The Blight has poisoned the land, but I feel something there, some glimmer deep underneath.”
“Then the old magic is still here, but it is being smothered.” He moved to the centre of the ruins, placing a hand on the largest fallen stone. Even from where she stood, Elizabeth could feel the unnerving cold that emanated from it. “Where does this corruption spring from? And what is its structure?”
She took a deep breath and focused again. The surface sickness gave way to a more horrifying picture. “The decay does not merely lie on top of the land,” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It is woven into it, like a choking vine. There are roots, dark, spiteful things, that have wrapped themselves around the ley line and into every surrounding node in Newcastle and beyond.”
“A parasitic structure? It is not just blocking the flow; it is siphoning the power for its own growth?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered, a shiver running through her. “And they all lead back to a central point, almost like a heart. Not a source of power, but a void. A place of cold, hateful silence where the land’s own magic should be strongest.”
Wickham, who had been listening with a jaded expression, gave a harsh laugh. “A heart of nothing. That sounds about right for this damned city.” He kicked at a loose stone. “The Arcane mages tried to blast this place with cleansing fire, but it only seemed to feed the darkness.”
