Читать книгу: «Protector of the Flight»
ROBIN D. OWENS
PROTECTOR OF THE FLIGHT
www.LUNA-Books.com
To My Critique Group,
a better bunch of writers I’ve never met.
Don’t think you’ll ever get rid of me,
because I can’t do this without you.
“Love is eternal—the aspect may change, but not the essence. There is the same difference in a person before and after he is in love as there is in an unlighted lamp and one that is burning. The lamp was there and was a good lamp, but now it is shedding light too, and that is its real function.”
—Vincent Van Gogh
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Coming Next Month
1
Colorado Mountains
Summer, Morning
Since her fall in the National Finals Rodeo, pain had been a daily enemy. Calli Torcher hesitated at the top of the steep stairs from her attic bedroom to the first floor, took a breath, braced a hand against the wall and gritted her teeth at the prospect of pain. No matter how carefully she set her feet, she’d jar herself, then stop and pant through the agony. Or she might fall and end up in the hospital. Again.
Recovering from a broken pelvis took time. The bad dreams that peppered her sleep didn’t help matters. She’d dreamt of people lost in a winter blizzard. Cries for help. Short notes of doom from a clock gong or the ranch’s iron triangle or a siren…
She shook her head to clear her mind and concentrate on navigating the stairs. It happened the third stair from the top, just a tiny misstep and she was leaning against the wall, trying to shut out waves of agony. When she recovered, she went on and made it to the ground floor with no other problems.
As she rested against the wall at the bottom landing, she wondered if she should ask her dad if she could use the downstairs storeroom as a bedroom until she fully healed. But things hadn’t been right between her and her father for months, ever since she’d fallen and lost the barrel-racing championship, ending her career at twenty-five.
That was the past. She could—and would—still train horses, take a more active role in the ranch now that she wasn’t on the road all the time, traveling the rodeo circuit.
Her nose twitched at the smell of strong coffee and frying bacon. Dad was up and fixing his own breakfast. Since he’d started without her, she decided she’d get some air, clear the images and sounds of the dream—the string of bad dreams—from her head and replace them with the beauty of the Rocking Bar T Ranch in their mountain valley.
Calli limped to the corral, breathing deeply, feeling the tingle of the breeze on her face, the softness of worn flannel and denim from her shirt and jeans on her skin. The ball of the sun shot yellow streaks of light into the sky.
She reached the corral fence and leaned against it, breathing fast, still weak from her last surgery. Still, if she continued to work hard, in another few months she’d be able to start training horses.
No whicker of greeting came from her gelding. Calli whistled. Nothing. He always greeted her. A twinge of alarm ruptured her calm. “Spark! Spark, here!” She called as if her horse was a young, heedless colt.
Her dad strode up, a lean tough man with a weathered face and hard lines carved from the rigors of cattle ranching. He leaned on the fence to her right. “The gelding ain’t here.”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. Bristly gray whiskers sprouted from his jaw. He could speak well if he wanted, if he respected the person he was talking to.
She wet her lips. “What do you mean, Spark isn’t here?”
His hat shadowed the eyes as blue as her own, but he squinted down at her all the same. Hard as the distant mountains. “He’s a highly trained rodeo horse, worth a lotta money. Couldn’t expect me to keep him ’round when you can’t ride him anymore and a profit can be made. Your last doctor’s appointment made me realize that.”
Calli pivoted so quickly it wrenched her hip. She ignored the pain in her body, so much less than the anguish in her heart. She spoke through the shock. “Spark is my horse. I gave you the money for him.”
Her dad shrugged. “I bought the gelding from the racetrack. The horse was registered in my name. I’m the owner of Rocking Bar T and everything on it.”
“Except for Spark. I paid for him,” Calli said through clenched teeth.
His stance was still casual. “Huh. My name is on the papers. And who paid for that horse’s keep when it was young? I did.”
Money wasn’t the issue. Love was. Giving and receiving love was everything. She’d needed something to love and return that love in her life. “How could you do this? I love him.”
He faced her now, as impassive as always, as if nothing touched him, not even a hint of irritation in his eyes. He looked her up and down as if judging a heifer, not as if he saw his daughter. “You should know better than that. Stupid to love an animal. Stupid to love at all. Love ain’t nothin’ that gets a return. A profit could be made, and Spark wasn’t no use to me. I sold him to Bill Morsey.”
Usefulness had always been Dad’s bottom line.
Her insides clenched, the pressure of hard tears backed behind her eyes. She couldn’t stop the question. “What about me? What about my usefulness?”
He grunted. “You can do your chores and stay. Do the cookin’ and cleanin.’ But I went to the bank. Since the ranch is paid for, I set up a reverse mortgage. The money’ll last long as I do, then you’ll have to find another place.”
Shock and nausea rolled through her. “I’d planned on training horses.”
“This is a cattle ranch.”
“We could build up a fine reputation—”
“No. We run cattle.”
She went to the bottom line. “You aren’t leaving the ranch to me?” Ever since she’d gone on the circuit, she’d always thought of the ranch as her future. Working hard, she’d sent money back for expenses. She’d thought she and her dad were partners.
His gaze fastened on her middle as if he could see her abdominal scars. “No reason to. Ain’t as if you can gimme a grandson, even.” Without another word he sauntered back to the house, leaving Calli’s world broken.
A noise tore from her, some animalistic cry of pain. Blindly she gripped the top fence rail, splinters lanced her hand.
All her life she’d shut out the knowledge of what her father was. Instead, she’d woven illusions that he cared about her. False, lying illusions that had been so comforting and that she’d held so long that she couldn’t see reality.
Her mother had abandoned them, then died. If her father had loved Calli before, he’d shut off his emotions afterward. As long as she proved useful, she was tolerated.
He might have enjoyed the reflected glory of her rodeo wins and liked the big bucks of the prizes. He’d taken care of her in the hospital and later when she was healing. But now that it was obvious she wouldn’t return to the rodeo she was nothing more than a woman to cook and clean.
She glanced around but refused to see past the surface beauty of the day. This place wasn’t her home anymore. She couldn’t afford the wrenching sense of loss.
Blood pounded in her ears and with it came the sounds of chimes and singing. Tinnitus, ringing in the ears, the doctors had said, and that it should go away soon. The illusory sounds might pass, but the very real loss of the ranch would always shadow her. More bad dreams.
Her white-knuckled hand on the wooden rail hurt from splinters, rough wood impressed hard on her palm, the ache of her stretched tendons. She let go.
She had to escape, allow emotions to surge through her—her grief for the loss of Spark, the destruction of her dreams. She’d plan later. This heartache she’d brought on herself for not letting herself see what the man who fathered her was—hard and bitter, guarding his heart from everyone, including her.
She limped, stumbled, caught herself, limped a few more steps—and found that she did so in rhythm to the reverberating rise and fall of melodic voices. Her foot brushed a fallen branch and she picked it up and used it as a walking staff.
By the time her eyes cleared from tears, she’d passed the edge of the ranch yard and was on her way to the sandstone rocks and the wide ledge on a hill that had always been her refuge. She needed air to breathe.
When she reached the ledge, her pelvis ached all the way up to her teeth. She hobbled past the huge sheered-off crystal face of the hill to solid rock and gingerly lowered herself to sit. She leaned against the hillside, her legs straight, and set the stick beside her. Then she wiped the sweat from her face, wrinkling her nose at the brown and red dirt smears on her bandana.
Her breath came fast with exertion. Her teeth hurt from gritting them when she’d negotiated her way up the rocky path. Up here, the wind blew and she heard a tinkle of chimes rushing around her.
She closed her eyes and whirls of bright colors streaked inside of her eyelids. The spots would fade as she rested.
Her heartbeat decreased to normal. Too much emotion and exertion in such a short amount of time had drained her.
Time seemed to slow until one moment was everything. The scent of rock and pine, the faint tumble of a distant stream, the cool wind, all etched on her memory.
She opened her lashes and looked out over the ranch, the kitchen gardens, the sprawling house, the land that stretched to the mountains, higher than this backyard hill. So beautiful. The stream was full—no drought this year.
For a while, Calli just sat and enjoyed the calm of her emotions. Too many problems had pressed down on her lately, flattening her spirits. For this one moment she could be quiet and enjoy life, let thoughts drift through her mind without jabbing at her heart.
Did she love the ranch?
No. It had always reflected what her dad wanted, not the kind of ranch she wanted, a horse ranch.
But she loved the land. And she loved the potential of a horse ranch. She wanted the land, wanted to shape that potential.
The rock was cold and hard against her back as her head throbbed with equally hard thoughts. She’d been a fool.
Well, that was the past. Maybe only the recent past, but time to wake up and fix her mistakes.
Spark was gone. Her heart twinged, jerking her body. She could barely stand that thought. Bill Morsey was a good horseman, and his daughter would be thrilled to have Spark. Calli’s lips turned down. Her father had probably done the best thing for Spark. The horse loved to run, delighted in an audience. Calli gulped and blew her nose on the corner of her bandana.
Now that she knew she’d have to fight Dad for her vision of the ranch, or walk away, she must make some decisions.
Should she fight for the land or get a check for her share and leave? She had a chance of winning—never Dad’s respect or love, she finally realized that, but she might be able to prove her contribution to the ranch, her vision was more profitable than his. In any event, she’d go to the bank and straighten them out about the equity she had in this place. She had records. There would be deposits, bills paid, after she’d sent money back, and everyone in town knew of her triumphs.
Fighting would take a lot of energy—physical and emotional, and that was a rare commodity for her during her recovery. And it would be bitter, turn her father against her forever.
But she loved the land and he already had no affection for her. How much did he love the ranch, the land? Would he hate her for fighting?
She didn’t think so. She loved. He didn’t.
He could take his share of the ranch money and walk away. It would be tough on her own at first, but she was confident she could make a name for the ranch, for herself, by horse training. She’d be well in a few months. Or after one more surgery.
Calli glanced at the smooth plane of crystal that was the face of the hillside beside her. Milky white with tints of green, the sheer face of the glassy rock stood taller and wider than herself. A small rim framed it, protecting it from the weather.
She hadn’t been able to look at the faint image of herself in the crystal for a long time.
A while back, she’d done a little research and discovered it was a fine piece of microcline. Devil’s Hole wasn’t too far away, and it had had even bigger crystals.
When she’d first found the path and the crystal when she was six years old, she’d been a little afraid of it. The green had tinged into dark shadows inside that reminded her of the tiny, dark bedroom her mom had locked her in when she’d left the ranch as evening fell—walked away from the land and her husband and her daughter forever. A memory Calli suppressed as much as possible.
Years later, sunlight had danced on the face of the crystal and lit the angles deep inside. Then she pretended she saw a different world dimly through the crystal, a place with flying horses and those who rode them lifting flashing swords. Later still, she just saw herself in the shadows.
She’d faced disillusionment today, maybe it was time to face herself again—then she’d know she was strong and able to deal with the future on her own. She’d never ride the rodeo circuit again, but she’d come to terms with that. She’d never have her father’s love, and that left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Levering herself up the wall slowly, she rose from the ledge and balanced on the stick.
She stared into the crystal and the shadows beyond the smooth outside plane. Her image was wavery, her blond hair a shade of yellow on the milkiness. She made out the curve of breast and hip.
But besides herself, she once again saw an imaginary vision of otherwhere. This time a section of a great, circular stone wall, and flickers of colorfully robed figures. Once again the strange sounds the doctors had called tinnitus plagued her. Chimes. A gong. The chanting of many voices in words she couldn’t seem to grasp. Gregorian chants, maybe.
Bong!
The sound came next to her ear, louder and more vibrant than ever. She pivoted, lost her balance and fell. Ah, shit, she was going to hit her head on the damn crystal.
But she fell through it, into a blank whiteness so pervasive she couldn’t tell if her eyes were open. She choked on a scream. All the emotions that had calmed as she sat on the ledge jammed into her. Fear. Despair. Most of all, a great longing for someone to love. Someone to love her back. A partner.
It lasted instants. It lasted an eternity. Then bright colors whirled in her sight—patterns, stained glass! She glimpsed pillars around the curved walls of a circular room, and rafters with huge crystal ends.
Pain shot up her hip, stealing breath. Calli didn’t believe this. Her throat closed with fear. She must have hit her head on the rock and was dreaming. She rubbed her head, but didn’t feel any bumps. Dazed, she examined her surroundings. A big round stone room with an altar and colored goblets. A gong. A circle of people.
Calli sucked in air. It didn’t smell anything like a hill in Colorado. It smelled like incense in a church. She gulped and shivering seized her.
A small woman with white hair and a young face, green eyes and a long scar along her cheek caught Calli’s attention. The lady wore a long velvet robe with silver threaded designs. “Hi, I’m Alexa Fitzwalter. Welcome to Lladrana,” she said.
This couldn’t be happening! But she wouldn’t take it lying down. When Calli awkwardly sat up, pain lancing low in her torso, the singing stopped.
Alexa stepped forward into the center of the star, compassion in her eyes. “It’s a rough trip.” She held out her hands.
Calli stared at her, touched her fingers. They felt solid and warm! Another moment passed and Calli realized that Alexa wouldn’t push. The dream woman was courteous. Alexa would let Calli make her own choices. A hard knot in her chest loosened, she was in charge of the dream. She put her hands in Alexa’s and was drawn to her feet with surprising ease and strength.
Alexa kept an arm around Calli as if to steady her and Calli was grateful for the physical and emotional support. Her gaze swept the circle of people, pausing at the men and women who were dressed more roughly than those in velvet robes.
When Alexa looked up at Calli, her expression was haunted. “We need you really, really bad.” Alexa licked her lips. “Do you know anything about horses?”
Clang! An alarm shrilled. Everyone in the room tensed.
Alexa cocked her head, her hands fisting. “We have no volarans,” her voice broke. “We can’t fly to battle.”
Stranger and stranger. Calli shot glances around the room, wanted to run, didn’t think she could hobble fast enough to escape…what?
“How good are you with horses?” Alexa demanded again, squeezing her arm.
Calli knew she flushed but shot up her chin. “Excellent. I’m an excellent horse trainer and one of the top barrel racers—”
People ran to the great door, flung it open, sending in bright summer-morning sunlight. A whir of wings rushed into the room.
Cheers rose outside. A young man shouted something.
“They came back,” Alexa whispered. Tears ran down her face. “The volarans have returned.” She looked up at Calli, sniffed. “I knew it was right to continue with the Summoning.”
Hooves hit the stone courtyard. The next moment people were spreading out in the room, making way for…for a winged horse.
Calli blinked. Blinked again. The pegasus didn’t vanish. In fact, more swept into the room. Ten. With dozens outside. Chestnuts, roans, piebalds, even a palomino or two. She caught her breath in sheer wonder and thought the top of her head would explode with this huge wave of horse-thoughts and horse-love radiating from them, inundating her.
A gray clopped up, stretched his wings, forcing people aside.
Her mind spun. Her mouth dropped open.
The stallion’s large dark gaze fixed on her. We love you. You are the Volaran Exotique. She heard the words in her head.
Then chimes clashed and she felt the sound storm through her, plucking at muscle and bone and nerve. She cried out, arching away from Alexa, escaping the woman’s grip. Reached for the winged horse, missed. Calli landed on the floor again on her butt and shrieked with the pain radiating through her pelvis.
Only agony existed. Everything else around her dimmed—she couldn’t see. Again and again the chimes rippled, but they sounded muffled as she grimly fought through the pain and hung on to the edge of consciousness.
Then someone struck the gong. Once. Twice.
She only heard a part of the third beat. Sweet darkness descended.
2
“She’s hurt!” Alexa Fitzwalter, once of Denver, now a Swordmarshall of Lladrana, whirled to face the Marshalls and Chevaliers.
Few were paying attention to her or the new Exotique. They were herding the newly arrived volarans out the door, the gray stallion grumbling, then taking off. People ran with unseemly haste to find their own winged companions.
The defection of the flying horses ten days ago had devastated the Chevaliers and Marshalls. A black pall of despair had filled the Castle. Calls to battle had been blessedly few—only three—but fighting without the flying horses was nearly impossible. Lladrana would be lost to the invading monsters without volarans. Dread had circled the Castle like a vulture.
They’d been desperate when they’d worked the ritual, praying the one they Summoned would somehow lure the volarans back.
A medica strode forward and crouched by the woman on the floor. Alexa turned back to watch the examination. She didn’t even know the woman’s name yet, but Alexa feared for her. She and the Marshalls had Summoned this woman from Colorado, away from Earth to this world, so Alexa was responsible for her until she made her own place on Lladrana. Biting her lip, Alexa shifted from foot to foot, grateful when her husband, Bastien, joined her.
He cocked his head, as if he listened to the mind-Song of a volaran—or many. His nostrils flared, then he grinned. He grabbed Alexa and spun her around and around, then placed her gently on her feet. Holding hands, they looked down where the medica sat next to the new Exotique, smoothing blond strands of hair away from a pale forehead.
“The volarans came back,” Bastien said. “For their Exotique.”
Alexa leaned against him in relief.
The medica said, “The Lady’s pelvis has recently been broken in three places.”
Alexa winced.
Glancing up at them, the medica said, “I suggest we all join together to do a healing spell.”
Alexa said, “I’ll call Marian, the Exotique Circlet Sorceress. She can help, too.” The community of Sorcerers had had Marian Summoned from Boulder, Colorado, just a few weeks ago.
“Good idea.” The medica hummed a slow lilting spellsong that settled the woman deeper into a healthful sleep.
Marrec watched as Lady Hallard closed the door of the healing room behind her, muting the continuous lilting of a healing Song. Hallard, the noble he swore loyalty to, ran her fingers through her hair.
He pushed from the wall where he’d stood, guarding the corridor for the last hour. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Good,” Lady Hallard rasped. She rubbed her throat. “She might not be able to ride long hours horseback, but flying a volaran will be possible.”
“She’s the right one?”
Hallard shrugged. “Has to be, if you believe in the Song and the Marshalls’ Summoning.”
Amusement unfurled inside him, mixing with deep gratitude that his volaran had returned. He’d never prayed so hard as he had the last ten days, wanting Dark Lance back. Marrec was a poor man with only the one treasure—his volaran—to his name.
But he answered his liege-woman. “I don’t dare disbelieve in the Marshalls’ Power.”
She grunted, pulled out the gloves tucked in her belt and put them on. “Think I’ll take a late-afternoon ride—if my lady volaran will deign to do as I say.” There was irritation in Hallard’s tone. Like all the rest of them, they’d thought of the flying horses as their property. They’d never been so shocked in their lives as when the volarans—even those born and bred in noble stables—had all deserted to the wild herds and the legendary Volaran Valley. It had never happened before.
All the Chevaliers—and the Marshalls—would be uneasy for some time.
Looking at him from under lowered brows, Hallard said, “You’re one of those who can hear and talk with the volarans mentally, right?”
He kept an easy smile on his face, though all the muscles of his body had tensed. Now that their special gift was known, those like him could be either prized or destroyed by the rest of the Chevaliers, and everyone knew it. A delicate situation. A balancing act. He ducked his head. “Yes, my lady.”
“Huh. Your volaran say anything to you?”
“No.”
“I asked Bastien, he says they aren’t talkin’ to him, either. Says they want to talk to the new Exotique first.”
Marrec lifted and dropped a shoulder. “Bastien’s the best with the winged steeds.”
Without another word, the Lady strode away. Marrec exhaled a sigh and rubbed his forehead. Lady Hallard was rich, had six volarans and fifty Chevaliers who’d sworn fealty to her.
He had one volaran, Dark Lance, that he couldn’t even consider his anymore. He shuddered. He wasn’t getting any younger. Time to seriously think about making his fortune, taking risks on the battlefield for booty. He’d have to give the Lady thirty percent of what he earned, but somehow he must come up with a stake to buy a small parcel of land where he could retire and ranch. He didn’t want to spend his older days as a pensioner in Lady Hallard’s castle. If he lived that long.
The Chevaliers were hoping that the new Exotique would participate in a Choosing and Bonding ritual for a mate. Marrec hoped, too, that she might choose him.
Fast footsteps approached. Marrec moved to stand in front of the door, listening to the stride. A tall man, rich because he had good, hard leather for the heels and soles of his boots. Arrogant. Probably a nobleman.
Even before the man turned the corner so Marrec could see him, Marrec sensed it was Faucon Creusse. A nobleman with many Chevaliers, wealthier than most Marshalls, and nearly of equal status. Attractive to the ladies.
Faucon glanced at the door behind Marrec, probably didn’t even notice Marrec.
Faucon would want the woman. Marrec had heard that Faucon was one of those men who was innately drawn to Exotiques. Something in their mental Song or their strangeness or even their otherworldly scent, drew Faucon like light drew moths. He’d sniffed around Alexa until Bastien, and Bastien’s brother, Luthan, had interfered.
He’d met the Circlet Sorceress Marian and given her expensive gifts. Marrec had heard the nobleman had become close friends with the Lladranan-Who-Was-Now-Exotique, Marian’s brother, the Chevalier Koz who had a Lladranan body and Exotique mind.
The new female Exotique behind the door had been expressly Summoned for the Chevaliers, would bond better with the knights than any other segment of Lladranan society. All the more exciting for Faucon. Yes, he’d want her.
Any smart Chevalier would want a Powerful, rich, volaran-beloved woman.
Marrec wanted her, too.
Faucon’s expression was pleasant, but his body tense with need. His eyes burned. A smile formed on his lips, but he didn’t meet Marrec’s gaze. “Lady Hallard asked me to relieve you or join the healing circle.”
Marrec knew which one Faucon preferred, but the man was being courteous to him, lesser Chevalier, giving Marrec the choice. He didn’t particularly want to take part in the healing, his Power was only fair, but he wanted Faucon near the Exotique even less. The nobleman already had too many advantages and would no doubt charm the lady out of her senses…when she came to them.
“I’ll go in,” Marrec said. He opened the door and entered, shutting it behind him.
He’d never been in the Marshalls’ Healing Room before and hesitated on the threshold. For a stone room inside a stone tower in a stone Keep, it looked unexpectedly…soft. The curved room was paneled with wainscoting along the lower wall. Plaster above it was painted warm tones of some pinky-yellow-peach colors that seemed to shift in the light from the fat pillar candles of dark green and the sunlight. A row of pointed windows showed a summer-blue sky. The healing dais was set on richly layered rugs with long gold fringe. Atop the dais was a thick mattress, from the looks of it, made of pure down. The injured woman lay on her stomach, still fully dressed.
The rhythm of the chant did not break, though several gazes fixed on him. The circle was a mixture of Chevaliers and Marshalls—with two Circlets, mages of the highest degree—the Exotique Circlet Marian, who held the yellow-haired woman’s right hand, and her own husband, Jaquar.
Alexa was on the opposite side of the prone woman and held the new Exotique’s left hand and was linked to Bastien. Marrec could see the strong aura of Power rippling the air from the magical and prayerful Singing. He stiffened his spine. He didn’t care for linking with others, but he was needed. “I’ve come to replace Lady Hallard,” he said.
Two people raised their connected hands, indicating he should insert himself between them. Marrec sucked in a big breath. He’d be between the Circlet Sorcerer Jaquar and the leader of the Marshalls, Swordmarshall Thealia Germaine. The Power that cycled through the group was strong indeed. Flying out of his class. Too bad.
Moving as smoothly as he could, he walked around the foot of the dais and the people there, then stood in front of a plush chair and slowly insinuated himself into the circle, disturbing the flow of magic as little as possible. The medica at the foot of the table handled the uneven stream as he joined the group.
The force of Power rushed through him, the Singing whipping his blood, flooding his every cell, even as he passed most of it from Jaquar to Thealia, sending it around and on.
His hands heated to unbearable tenderness. He held on. The Power threatened to rock his balance. He hunkered down. His chest constricted. He opened his mouth to breathe and when he could, he added his voice to the Song.
It was an intricately layered Song, blended of voices from bass to soprano, harmonizing, hypnotic, healing. After a few minutes, Marrec became accustomed enough to the huge energy pouring through him to sink into the deep softness of the chair. He was aware of every nerve of his body, every pulse of his blood, every hair on his head—and some of those were turning silver with the Power he handled—making his own gift stronger, opening up rivers in his mind that had been trickles before.
Wondrous.
He wouldn’t walk away from this place the same man he’d been when he entered the door. The thought scared him, but he squeezed the fear into a tiny ball and hid it from the others.
His throat cleared, and he sent strength to his voice, to his words, full of Power. Gazes flew to him. He inclined his head. He knew he had a good voice, clear and true, he just hadn’t been able to use it fully until now.
