“I am certain.” Magnus had begun to wonder if he was capable of feeling anything. “Ye said yerself that my aura did not change for either of them.”
“Aye.” Talon snorted out twin curlicues of smoke. “Not even a flicker.”
“The Weavers await permission to enter.” Inuk, a grand cloud dragon, flightless but still formidable and covered in long, flowing silver-gray fur, had been the fortress steward since before Magnus had ascended to the throne. “What say ye, my chief? Lord Darkmist?”
After a last glance at Talon, Magnus nodded. “Bring them in.”
Inuk stepped aside and looked back out into the hallway. “Ye may enter,” he said, sounding as though he thoroughly disagreed with the decision.
Mairwen, the old witch herself, and her fumbling lackey hurried into the room and stood on the great golden star inlaid in the pattern of the floor’s intricate tile mosaic. Strategically placed in the center of the room beneath the section of the sloped ceiling of glass, some nights, it aligned perfectly with the brightest star in the skies above.
Not in the least interested in putting them at ease, Magnus glared at them, clenching his teeth so hard that his jaws ached. “Speak yer piece, witch. I have no interest in wasting my time with watching ye cower.”
“I do not cower.” The Divine Weaver tossed her head, making her white mane glow with an even eerier light. “We have found yer fated mate. We are certain of it this time.”
“That is what ye said the last time.”
Her brilliant blue eyes flashed with pride—and a wee bit of shame. “I am aware of that.” She glanced at her assistant. “But the entire Council of Divine Weavers tested this particular woman. We are more than certain this time.” She tipped a curt nod at the girl beside her. “Prepare the scrying bowl so we might introduce Chief MacRaith to his one.”
After a cautious glance his way, the youngling whose name he didn’t care to remember, opened the large cloth satchel hanging from the strap slung across her chest and pulled out a black onyx bowl and a vial of water.
She held up the softly glowing container of fluid, attempted to smile, and failed. “Moon-blessed water.” Her voice cracked with nervousness. “May I place these on yer desk, m’lord?”
Since he couldn’t clench his teeth any tighter, he narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “If that will move this along, then, aye, make haste with whatever ye are playing at.”
Talon rumbled with an audible groan, then connected with Magnus’s mind.“This is a waste of time. They are Weavers who have validated dragonkind’s mistrust and dislike of them.”
“Yet, if they have finally found her,”Magnus replied,“It will be worth tolerating them for a short while.”
“It canna be short enough.”Talon snorted a thick cloud of smoke, chuckling to himself as the Weavers squinted and coughed while continuing their preparations.
“Dinna be childish,”Magnus told him. The need for him to be the judicious one irritated him even more.“Ye’ll only slow them, ye ken?”
Talon rolled his eyes and snorted again but withheld the smoke this time.
“Might I ask that our magic be allowed?” Mairwen turned to Talon and waited.
Magnus nodded for his scaly brother to lift the ancient dragon wards that nullified the Weaver’s powers.
Talon growled, then grudgingly flicked a claw. “Proceed.”
As the old witch passed her hands over the shallow bowl of highly polished onyx, Magnus braced himself. They had done this twice before. Both women had been fine to look upon, but he had felt nothing. In her flawed wisdom, the Divine Weaver had said it was because they inhabited another plane of existence. She had assured him that once they entered the Thirteenth Realm, the mate bond would roar into existence. Both times, it had not, and the poor, confused females had been returned to wherever they’d come from.
Mairwen stepped back from the bowl and bowed her head. “Lyla Ibrams, great chief. Yer fated mate.”
Expecting nothing, Magnus strode forward, looked down into the bowl, and found himself unable to look away. Eyes so blue, the most brilliant skies over Scotland dimmed in comparison, looked back at him. Dark hair, not quite black but nearly so, turned a burnished amber hue whenever it caught the light as she turned her head. It was long and flowed well past her shoulders. The hint of a cleft in her chin highlighted the fullness of her rose-petal lips. She possessed the finely sculpted visage of a beautiful queen, staring back at him as if daring him to refuse her. He swallowed hard. He doubted he could ever refuse this woman anything.
“Brother?”Talon’s concern echoed through his thoughts.“The strength of what ye feel has colored the air around ye. Yer aura has changed, but it shimmers with uncertainty. Are ye unwell?”
“I dinna ken.”And Magnus truly didn’t know. He had never felt this way before. He stepped back and lifted his gaze to the Weavers. “Is she from the same place, the same time, as the others?”
Mairwen nodded. “Aye, the realm of twenty-first century Earth appears to be a favored place for the gods to hide lost souls.” She eased closer, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. “Do ye feel anything this time, mighty chief? Is there hope that we have at last found her?”
“I dinna ken what I feel.” His breathing had become ragged, as if he had just stepped from battle. “But there is something.” He looked back at the image, memorizing every nuance of the woman. “Her voice. Her song. Is it as beautiful as she is?”
The Divine Weaver looked away, grimacing as if in pain. “She canna sing, m’lord.” She barely shook her head. “Her voice is…” She released a heavy sigh that sent his hopes crashing. “Her voice is damaged. Rough with the hoarseness of one who has shouted overly much or suffered with an ailment of the throat. It will never improve.”
Clutching the haft of his sword, Magnus itched to cleave the old crone’s head from her shoulders. “And yet ye came here, anyway. Knowing she could never be the one of the prophecy. What spell did ye cast over her image to draw me to it?”
