He told her what the use of magic did to him, and how making love helped him. How he’d gone through the stones to the future, to make certain Drustan had indeed been reunited with Gwen, needing to know that his sacrifice hadn’t been for naught. And how he’d stayed, unwilling to face his clan as he was, hoping to find a way to save himself.

He told her he’d not worn the plaid of the Keltar since, though he’d not mentioned the scrap she’d found beneath his pillow, so she’d not brought it up either. She knew what it meant. She could picture him lying alone in his bed in his museum of a penthouse, in a world that must have seemed so strange to him, staring at it. It had symbolized all his hopes, that worn piece of cloth.

She’d thought him an idle womanizer when she’d met him, this man who was so much more than that!

Now she understood the sensation she’d had on several occasions of an ancient, evil presence: It had always been when Dageus had recently used magic. She understood how he’d breached such impenetrable security systems: with a bit of supernatural help. She understood the quixotic nature of his eyes: They darkened as he darkened. She had an entirely new appreciation for his discipline and control. She suspected that she’d only glimpsed the tip of the iceberg, and couldn’t begin to fathom the battle he was waging every waking moment.

Although he condemned himself for carrying such evil within him, for having freed it to begin with, Chloe couldn’t quite see it that way.

Dageus had done what he’d done out of love for his brother. Should he have cheated death in such a fashion? Maybe not. It did seem to go against the natural order of things; still, if the power to do so existed, well . . . was that not then part of the natural order of things? It was an ethically explosive issue, not because of the act itself but because of the potential for a man to abuse such power, to cheat at every turn.

Yet Dageus hadn’t cheated again. Since he’d broken his oath he’d become the repository for absolute power, and not once abused it. Instead, he’d devoted every moment of his existence to trying to find a way to lay that power to rest.

What was his actual transgression? Loving so much that he’d risked it all. And heaven help her—she loved him all the more for it.

Surely his intent mitigated his action to some extent? Even in man’s court of law, punishment for a crime was meted out in degrees respective of intent.

“It wasn’t as if any of you asked for such power,” she said irritably.