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Back Heir to Sevenwaters Save as PDF
Chapters (22)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgements
  5. CHAPTER 1
  6. CHAPTER 2
  7. CHAPTER 3
  8. CHAPTER 4
  9. CHAPTER 5
  10. CHAPTER 6
  11. CHAPTER 7
  12. CHAPTER 8
  13. CHAPTER 9
  14. CHAPTER 10
  15. CHAPTER 11
  16. CHAPTER 12
  17. CHAPTER 13
  18. CHAPTER 14
  19. CHAPTER 15
  20. CHAPTER 16
  21. CHAPTER 17
  22. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“This way!” It was Cathal’s voice, and now Cathal’s hand grasped mine and the two of us were running again, running blind through the vapor as the sound of hooves came after us. Let the portal be near, I prayed. Let us find it soon . . .

We ran until my legs would barely carry me; until my head was dizzy and my eyes were blurred. Still the mist clung. We could have been anywhere. My chest hurt and my legs ached. The terrain changed again, and now I could see skeletal forms of willow and elder looming through the mist. I could feel the ground underfoot becoming mossy and damp. Somewhere nearby there was a sound of moving water. Cathal’s grip on my hand was tight enough to hurt. He was pulling me after him so fast I could barely stay on my feet. Behind us in the obscurity someone was shouting.

I was hauled bodily up a rise, over rocks slick with moisture. The eldritch vapor had begun to dissipate; Ciarán’s charm was losing its potency.

“Got to—catch my breath,” I gasped. “Fiacha—where’s Fiacha?”

“I can’t imagine.” Cathal sounded odd. Something was wrong. Through the last shreds of mist I looked up at him and my heart stopped. The man who had been leading me, the man whose hand I had been gripping as if my life depended on it, was not Cathal at all. It was his father.

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 16

I clawed and kicked, trying to wrench away, but he was too strong. He simply took me by the shoulders and held me at arm’s length, his brows raised, his lips twisted as if he found my desperation mildly amusing. There was only one thing I could do. I sucked air into my lungs and screamed, “Cathal! I’m here!”

There was no reply. Now that the mist was gone, the boles of the trees shone like silver ghosts in the light of a low, invisible moon. Beyond them lay a broad, murmuring darkness; surely the same river we had crossed on that rickety raft when first we entered Mac Dara’s realm. On the far bank stood an ancient, half-dead willow, whose weathered branches reached out across the water as if beckoning me home. I saw no raft, no rope. There was something, all the same; a pale line spanning the water, beneath the surface.

“There’s no point in calling my son,” Mac Dara said, his fingers tightening on my shoulders. “He’s not much of a man, Clodagh. First he shows a complete lack of enthusiasm for your tempting offer. Then he passes you straight into my hands. That was the most basic of tricks. He should have thought of it himself, knowing how alike the two of us are.”