All around him, it was as if small, insistent voices tore at the edges of his awareness, all demanding his attention in a sensory-battering cacophony.
Here!The pen from Mackenzie’s clipboard lay buried in a tall clump of grass off to his left.
Here!An earring somewhere beyond in the grove of trees, lost over a decade past.
Here!A shard of pottery, buried beneath his feet, centuries ago forgotten.
It was too much all at once, hundreds of voices spilling over one another in a flood of noise. So many, they drowned one another out, masking the individual words, turning the sound into an indistinguishable mass of writhing colors pounding in his brain.
Flynn lifted his hands to his ears in a fruitless effort to block the flow. How could anyone profit from an assault such as this? It would be impossible to isolate any one item from the whole.
Unless he could learn to filter the noise, to sift out that which he sought.
He stalked into the grove, slowing to snatch up a discarded trowel on his way. Once beyond the sight of his companions, he dropped to his knees and plunged the blade of the trowel into the soft ground.
Here!
Clawing into the earth with his fingers, he shoved away a handful of rotting leaves and mud. He alternatedbetween trowel and fingers, digging like a madman until at last one of the voices ceased to call. He splayed open his hand, pushing through the clump of dirt he held until he found it, the earring that had called out to him.
What a magnificent gift the Magic had bestowed! He needed only to figure out a way to isolate the individual voices he sought, those of the Portal pieces.
Dropping the worthless trinket to the ground, Flynn closed his eyes, fighting to ignore the many in favor of the few. He filled his mind with the Portal as he imagined it would have looked, willing his mind to go deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of flowing color that was the noise.
How long he kneeled on the damp ground he had no idea, nor did he care. All he was aware of was that it was working! Gradually, one by one, the voices receded, layers of color peeling back, leaving him alone in a dark cocoon of silence.
“Come on, people! Doesn’t look like the rain is going to let up this time. Let’s wrap it up for the day!”
Mackenzie’s voice pierced his awareness, drawing him back to the present. Somewhere along the way, the clouds had returned, bringing with them the rain that splattered against his face in large, cold drops.
Already the Magic was beginning to fade.
Slowly, Flynn rose to his feet, acutely aware of the spots within him which would soon be empty again. He’d not found any trace of the Portal, but he had found something perhaps just as good.
Abigail was descended from the Fae. Now that he had his proof, he was more determined than ever to proceed with his plans.
Fighting the emptiness left behind by the initial rush of the Magic, Flynn made his way out of the grove and into the clearing, his eyes instantly drawn to Abigail.
He might never find his way back to Wyddecol, but perhaps he could live with that now. He would have her, and through her he would have the Magic. As much and as often as he desired.
Twelve
Heat radiated off the stone RoundHouse in great sparkling waves, a promise of the physical misery to come.
“Here is your robe, Guardian.” The tall Fae waited only until Colin had taken the garment before turning his back. “As usual, you may leave your. . . wrapping on the stool by the door.”
“I’ve no a need for yer scrap of cloth, Odirn.” Colin grinned as he accepted the robe, tossing it to the stool before unwinding his plaid. “I’ve no a problem with my own body.”
Surprisingly for a race of men who seemed to Colin more than ready to swive every female who crossed their path, the Fae were unaccountably modest about their own nudity around other men.
“You may have no problem, but have a care for therest of us. Wear the damned robe. Why must we go through this every time, Guardian?”
Why? Because teasing Odirn was one of the few things that amused him here in Wyddecol. As always, Colin held his own counsel on the matter, grinning more broadly at the old fellow.
The Fae placed his hands together as if in prayer, closed his eyes, and bowed low. “Blessings for a fruitful Communion, Guardian.”
“Blessings, my arse,” Colin muttered, pulling open the door.
The wet heat blasted him as he stepped inside, stinging his eyes and nose. He closed the door behind him but moved no farther into the small room, waiting instead for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the interior. The room itself was a perfect circle, its smooth surface broken only by a fire pit set against the wall, its top glowing red with coals. This was the only light source in the cramped space. Steam hissed from a massive kettle of water placed over the fire pit, rolling into the room and filling his lungs with each breath.
