Radford, Irene - Merlin's Decendants 02 by Guardian of the Trust

Author:Guardian of the Trust [Trust, Guardian of the]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-08-15T15:28:57+00:00

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

It turned to look at him and sighed as a tired mother reacted to a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. And, like a mother, the horse returned to his meal, ignoring Radburn’s demands.

“I’ll feed you to the Griffin’s pack of wolfhounds—my pack of wolfhounds—if you don’t get moving!”

Radburn threatened, digging in his spurs once more. The horse reached for another tuft of grass two steps along the path they had been following.

“Well, that’s progress.”

Suddenly the sky brightened as if the sun had burned through a light haze—but there had been no haze.

The auras around every plant, tree, creature of field and forest, and person tending the fields flared and intensified. Images of a flaming sword burned Radburn’s eyelids. He screamed and covered his eyes with both hands, trying to blot out the instrument of his doom.

“Excalibur!” he gasped. “She’s unearthed Excalibur, and she’s using it. Demons help me, I’ve got to destroy it before she learns all of its secrets.” If he got to the sword in time, before Resmiranda bonded with it and made it her own, he could break it and the magic embedded into the blade. But every time Resmiranda worked magic with or was even close to the sword she strengthened both herself and the blade.

“Hurry, horse. We have to stop her.”

This time the horse obeyed his prodding and trotted north toward Kirkenwood of his own volition.

Too nervous to eat, I made my way back to the lair—as I had begun to call Uncle Henry’s sanctuary—for the recorded ritual and many of the ingredients. Swallowing my disgust, I added the rag soiled with my own bodily fluids to the herbs that would burn on the brazier.

Before that, I had to set candles at North, East, South, and “West and light them in a sun path beginning with east, the position of sunrise. Aunt Lotta had said that I must light the candles and the brazier from my mind and not with flint and tinder. True fire was different from a ball of witchlight. Many years ago, Uncle Henry had helped me summon the element of fire. Bringing forth one tiny spark had required intense concentration. A headache and exhaustion had laid me low for hours afterward. I had never repeated the feat on my own. Actually I had tried it only once, convinced that if I used any portion of my talent I would burn in hell for all eternity. That one time I tried, the vigil light by the altar had sputtered and died in the middle of singing Lauds. At such an early hour, between midnight and dawn, I thought relighting the oil lamp with my mind might be easier than refilling the oil chamber and borrowing a flame from the altar, with proper prayers repeated at each stage of the ritual. I had been very young and hadn’t realized that all fire—especially the kind I ignited with my mind—needed fuel. The flame had flared briefly and then died before anyone but me noticed.

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