Chapter 37

waxing moon

Morag came down the shining road into a world of smoke and flame. The dark horse squealed, then sat back on his haunches, preparing to wheel and take them back to the shining road—and safety.

She wanted to let him turn back, wanted to escape the heat that made her feel like a dried husk and the air that fouled her lungs and made her choke as she struggled to breathe. But the path of fire was also the Lightbringer’s path, so she dug her heels into the dark horse’s sides, bent low in the saddle, and gasped, “Run.”

He gave her his heart and his courage—and he ran. Trees exploded from the heat, showering them with bits of flaming wood. She screamed in fury, in fear, and guided him as best she could through the tunnel of fire, her eyes slitted against the smoke and heat.

Death roared in that fire, and when the dark horse almost stumbled on something soft, she hoped it was a rabbit and not one of the Small Folk who lived in Bretonwood.

Curse you, Lucian. May you never have a moment’s peace for the rest of your life.

The trail split. The fire hadn’t reached the right-hand fork, leading to the Clan house. For a heartbeat, she thought of taking that trail, circling round. But images from the dream flashed in her mind—Neall, dying on the trail; Ari, fleeing from an enemy. She didn’t have time. Whatever it cost her, she didn’t have time. So she turned the dark horse onto the left-hand fork that burned, burned, burned all the way to Neall and Ari’s cottage.

The dark horse’s breathing was harsh and labored, but he ran. He ran until they burst out of the trees into the meadow where she saw a nightmare—and hope.

She let him turn toward the kitchen garden, toward the grass untouched by the battle taking place in the meadow. Choking, gasping for air, she watched, not daring to do more at that moment when her vision was blurred and her control too shaky to summon her power.

The black horse and the stag circled each other, looking for an opening to strike a blow. Merle circled with them, also looking for an opening. The stag had a hoofprint branded onto his left flank, but Morag didn’t think Neall even realized he’d been struck. Flames rose wherever Lucian’s hooves touched the ground, but they were quickly extinguished, as if someone was grounding the power as fast as Lucian could summon it.