Page 125 of Triumph at Pemberley

Tears stood in her ancient eyes. “Do it! Or his sacrifice is in vain!”

Sacrifice? A shiver ran down his spine.

Sycamore had given his life to save the rest of them. Darcy’s own exhaustion was nothing in comparison. “I will try,” he said humbly. “Though I have used all my strength.”

Granny frowned. Darcy’s skin prickled from a sending, and then Elizabeth spoke to him in his mind. Let me do it.

She was alive! Relief flooded him.

He still could not see her, nor summon the strength to respond, but the land began to stir under him. Could her weaker land bond be sufficient for a working of such depth?

Apparently not, for the opening did not change.

And they would all die for it, unless he could find a way to help.

Desperate, he found a tiny reserve of his connection to Pemberley. He pushed it forward, meeting her Talent and helping to direct it deeper, insisting that the ground make itself whole. It did not want to listen to him, but he sent every ounce of pleading in him, telling the land how it would suffer, how many trees and plants and animals would die otherwise.

It heard his desperation, backed by Elizabeth’s land Talent. The hole started to look smaller, even as a strange orange glow began to emerge from it. A wave of heat burst forth, blowing a dry wind against his cheeks.

Sycamore must be battling Napoleon. The flames would eventually erupt and fill the clearing if they could not close the hole. Even with Elizabeth's Talent working with his, it was not enough. He needed more.

He strained to reach out. Through the grass. Through the topsoil, to the cottage at the heart of Pemberley where Mrs. Sanford and his tenants were. Would they hear his wordless cry?

Power seeped back to him, the power of the people of Pemberley. Not much, but he seized it, directing it to cover the hole, to make it heavy and unbreakable.

Still not enough.

Bile rose in his throat. This could not be the end. Not after of all his work and Elizabeth’s.

Then a new surge of energy poured into him from the cottage. It was like a river, this unknown Talent, almost as powerful as his or Elizabeth's. It had a familiar flavor, but he could not recognize the source.

It did not matter, not when it was their only chance. He would take the power, whoever it came from. He pushed it into the land, and felt the soil respond to his request.

It was working! The ground was building itself quickly now, a yard every few seconds, responding to the pleas of all its bonded people. Finally, it closed. Darcy sank back in relief.

Too soon. Under his feet, the earth shook unpredictably. It must be the ongoing dragon battle beneath the surface.

The newly built patch began to heave. It was not holding. How could it, without roots and rocks to give it stability? He had to do better. Digging into his last vestiges of consciousness, using the unrecognizable power flowing to him, he commanded the earth to turn to stone.

Then his vision faded to black, and he knew no more.

Chapter 47

Elizabeth limped out from the trees. She had known what to expect from her work with Darcy in closing the hole, but it was still a shock to see the fallen Dragon Stone ahead of her. And the bare rock where Darcy had created the hole – no wonder it had taken so much Talent to close it!

She glanced down regretfully at her torn skirt. Between that and the bloody scrape on her cheek, she must present a sight. She cradled her injured arm in the other, favoring her untwisted ankle. That had been a nasty fall. She had been fortunate to walk away alive from it.

Or perhaps her luck was due to wearing Rana Akshaya’s ruby Artifact, because once again her side had burned when she landed, right under the spot in her stays where the ruby lay hidden. And when she tried to feel the wound on her back, there was no blood or opening, just a sore spot. Somehow it had protected her. Was this what the Star of Travancore did? Preventing wounds? Because somehow it had stopped the guard’s knife from piercing her and had protected her when she tumbled down from the tree, too.

She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her cheek. Better to clean off the blood before Darcy spotted her.

.

Before she could, though, the dragons began to keen. The hair rose on the back of her neck at the sound. Cerridwen's voice was clear in it, an expression of woe. Just as the sound became unbearably loud, it transformed into wordless music, strange dragon harmonies rising to the sky.

It was a lament, the sorrow of it blanketing the clearing, the grief over a life lost too soon.

The glow was fading, and the ground no longer moved. The underground battle must have ended. Surely neither Napoleon nor Sycamore could have survived.