“Someone spread the word that yer wolf was the pale alpha. It had to have come from within Wraith Tower. Ye had barely just arrived here in the Ninth Realm, and yet everyone knew.”
“How will we ever know who it was?”
He gently took her hand and placed it on the necklace around her lovely neck. “The wolfstone is once more with its rightful owner. The amulet will tell ye whom ye can and canna trust. Never remove it. Never, ye ken? Not only did Mairwen advise us of such, but so did Noirgarth and Bresag. We must heed their warnings this time. We nay took Mairwen seriously before.”
Calia closed her fingers around the medallion resting at the base of her throat. “Did you go to Seven Cairns?”
“No, love. Mairwen brought it when the cards told her ye had been taken.”
She bit her lip, nervously chewing on its corner. “And my things from my time? My things from Gillian?”
He took her hand and kissed it again. “Mairwen has them in safekeeping and has sworn to bring them to ye as soon as we’re settled back at the Tower. She specifically told me that yer daughter’s book is safe.”
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and he kissed it away. “We will make yer Gillian a room at the tower. A place for her alone. For whenever ye need to light a candle and send yer love to her.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?” she asked quietly.
“No. I think ye’re a mother grieving for yer daughter.”
She closed her eyes again and pulled in a deep breath while mindlessly petting the large dragon egg beside her. It was as though the touch of its shell consoled her. “It’s been two years. You’d think I’d be better than this by now.”
He gently brushed the backs of his fingers along the velvety softness of her cheek. “Ye feel what ye feel, mo chridhe. There are no rules when it comes to saying goodbye to those we love.”
She turned her head and looked directly at him, her eyes still cloudy but less so, and they seemed a little more focused. “I can’t believe I was ever afraid to love you.”
“We both were a pair of fools there for a while. Neither of us possessed the courage to embrace something as terrifying and powerful as love.”
The nursery door creaked open behind him.
“Forgive the interruption,” Bresag said, “but we have Weavers at the entrance of our lair. Shall we grant them entry?”
While Mathison welcomed the Weavers so they might continue Calia’s healing, he hesitated. Dragons and Weavers weren’t exactly enemies, but neither were they allies. Dragons held a particular disdain for the immortals chosen by the goddesses to see to the needs of the Highland Veil. “This is yer home, Bresag, and therefore, yer decision. I respect whatever Noirgarth and yerself decide.”
She seemed to smile as she took in his words with a slight nod, or as close to a smile as a dragon ever came. “We shall grant them entry—this time.”
“But we prefer ye meet with them in the outer chambers,” Noirgarth said as he moved to stand beside his wife. “The nursery is sacred and no place for them.”
“Understood.” Mathison gave Calia a tender, loving kiss. “I shall return shortly, mo chridhe. Rest and heal.”
“I love you,” she whispered, smiling as she closed her eyes.
He carefully tucked the blankets around her and kissed her again. “And I love ye more than ye will ever fathom.”
“Come.” Bresag motioned him forward with a sense of urgency. “Noirgarth must seal the nursery for the protection of our children and yer Calia. I shall stay inside with them. With so many Weavers of Light at our threshold, I am unsettled by the possibilities of their combined powers.”
After one last glance at Calia to ensure she was resting peacefully, Mathison hurried out. Noirgarth secured the door by exhaling an eerily white flame around the portal’s opening to seal it. When they reached the outermost chamber of the dragons’ home, the heat of the wall that protected the lair from the passage hit Mathison with a blast of heat that nearly stole the air from his lungs. The barrier glowed a fierce warning red. The dragons didn’t wish there to be any doubt that unexpected visitors, especially Weavers, were not welcome. But within moments, the glowing wall disappeared, just as it had when Mathison first arrived.
Mairwen headed the group of Weavers whose powerful auras lit the tunnel as brightly as sunshine at midday. She offered Noirgarth a regal nod. “Thank ye for yer hospitality, mighty Protector of the Weak. Ye are most gracious to grant us entry.”
The dragon studied her, his great golden eyes narrowing. “As I am sure ye can understand, we prefer that ye stay here in the outermost chamber. It is safer for those currently unable to protect themselves.”
She opened her hands and held them out to show she had no weapons. “I understand. We come to offer more healing for Calia and her inner wolf. Glennis, the Master Dream Weaver, has seen that Danu’s herbs and the dragon tears struggle to vanquish Carman’s poison.” Then her gaze shifted to Mathison, and she offered him a worried scowl. “Carman has left the Under. She searches for yerself and yer mate. To grant ye more time, time that yer Calia sorely needs for her healing, Ishbel and her Spell Weavers have cast a glamour that engulfs the entirety of Shadowmist Keep and all that exists in the tunnels under it. But this spell will not last long. Not against the intensity of Carman’s dark magic.”
“We will be ready,” Mathison said. And they would be. One way or another. “What healing do ye offer? Since donning the wolfstone, Calia seems to have improved, but still has much healing to do.”
Mairwen waved forward a Weaver he had never met. “This is Shona, Master Tranquility Weaver. She and Bedelia have created a tincture of ferus-antidotum with a variety of herbs known to repel Carman and her ilk.”
“Her ilk are gone. I killed them with the wolfstone and one of Grandsire’s spells.”
