The stranger’s hand lifted free of the cloak and beckoned to the young woman. The hand was gnarled, and the fingers were clawed. But Mareth did not seem to see. She took a small step forward.
“Yes, child, come to me,” the stranger urged, his eyes gone as red as blood, fangs showing behind a smile as wicked as a snake’s strike. “Let me explain everything to you. Take my hands, your father’s hands, and I will tell you what you are meant to know. Then you will understand. You will see that I am right in what I tell you. You will know the truth.”
Mareth took another step forward. The hand that held the Druid staff lowered slightly.
In the next instant Kinson Ravenlock wrenched free of the magic that ensnared him, threw off its shackles, and unsheathed his long knife. In a single fluid motion, he flung the knife at the stranger. Mareth cried out in fear—for herself or her father or even Kinson, the Borderman could not tell. But the stranger transformed in the blink of an eye, changing from something human to something that was definitely not. One arm swept up, and a sheet of wicked green fire burst forth, incinerating the long knife in midair.
What stood before them now in a haze of smoke and flickering light was a Skull Bearer.
A second burst of fire exploded from the creature’s clawed fingers, but Kinson was already moving, flinging himself into Mareth and carrying her from the trail and into a pocket of ashcoated rubble. He was back on his feet instantly, not waiting to see if she had recovered, dodging around a wall and toward the Skull Bearer. He would have to be quick now if he wanted to live. The creature was slouching toward them, fire sparking from the tips of its fingers, red eyes burning out of the shadows beneath its hood.
Kinson darted across an open space, the fire just missing him as he threw himself down and rolled behind the skeleton of a small tree The Skull Bearer swung toward him, whispering words insidious and hateful, words filled with dark promise.
Kinson drew out his broadsword. He had lost his bow, which might have made a better weapon—though in truth he possessed no weapon that could make a difference. Stealth and guile had protected him in the past, and neither was of any use now.
“Mareth!” he cried out in desperation.
Then he launched himself from his hiding place and charged toward the Skull Bearer.
The winged hunter shifted to meet the attack, hands lifting, claws sparking. Kinson could tell already that he was too far away to close with the monster before the fire struck. He dodged to his left, looking for cover. There was none to be found. The Skull Bearer rose before him, dark and forbidding. Kinson tried to cover his head.
Then Mareth cried out sharply, “Father!”
The Skull Bearer whirled at the sound of the young woman’s voice, but already the Druid fire was lancing from the raised tip of Mareth’s staff. It slammed into the winged hunter’s body and flung it backward against a wall. Kinson stumbled and fell trying to shield his eyes. Mareth’s face was harsh in the killing light, and her eyes were cast of stone. She sent the fire into the Skull Bearer in a steady stream, burning through its defenses, through its toughened skin, and into its heart. The creature screamed in hatred and pain flinging up its arms as if to fly away. Then the Druid fire consumed it completely, and it was turned to ash.
Mareth threw down the staff in fury, and the Druid fire died away.
“There, Father,” she hissed at the remains, “I have given you my hands to hold in yours. Now explain to me about truth and lies. Go on. Father, speak to me!”
Tears began to stream down her small, dark face. The night closed about once more, and the silence returned. Kinson climbed slowly to his feet, walked to her, and carefully drew her against him. “I don’t think he has much to say on the subject, do you?”
She shook her head wordlessly against his chest. “I was such a fool. I couldn’t seem to help myself. I couldn’t stop myself from listening to him. I almost believed him! All those lies! But he was so persuasive. How did he know about my father? How did he know what to say?”
Kinson stroked her hair. “I don’t know. The dark things of this world sometimes know the secrets we keep hidden. They discover our fears and doubts and use them against us. Bremen told me that once.” He lowered his chin to her hair. “I think this creature was waiting for any of us to come—for you, me, Bremen, Tay, or Risca—any of those who threaten his Master. This was a trap of the same sort set by the Warlock Lord at Paranor, designed to snare whoever walked into it. But Brona used a Skull Bearer this time, so he must be very afraid of what we might do.”
“I almost killed us,” she whispered. “You were right about me.”
“I was wrong,” he replied at once. “Had I come alone, had you not been with me, I would be dead. You saved my life. And you did so with your magic. Look at the ground on which you are standing, Mareth. Then look at yourself.”
She did as he asked. The ground was blackened and scorched, but she was untouched. “Don’t you see?” he asked softly. “The staff channeled your magic, just as Bremen said it would. It carried off the part that would threaten you and kept only what was needed. You have gained control of the magic at last.”
She looked at him steadily, and the sadness in her eyes was palpable. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Kinson. I don’t want control of the magic. I don’t want anything to do with it I am sick of it. I am sick of myself—of who I am, of where I came from, of who my parents were, of everything about me.”
“No,” he said quietly, holding her gaze.
“Yes. I wanted to believe that creature or I would not have been so mesmerized. If you hadn’t broken his hold on me, we would both be dead. I was useless. I am so caught up in this search to discover the truth about myself that I endanger everyone around me.”
Her mouth tightened. “My father, he called himself. A Skull Bearer. Lies this time, but maybe not the next. Perhaps it is true. Perhaps my father is a Skull Bearer. I don’t want to know. I don’t want anything more to do with magic and Druids and winged hunters and talismans.“ The tears had started again, and her voice was shaking. ”I am finished with this business. Let someone else go on with you. I quit.”
Kinson looked off into the darkness. “You can’t do that, Mareth,” he told her finally. “No, don’t say anything, just listen to me. You can’t because you are a better person than that. You have to go on. You are needed to help those who cannot help themselves. It isn’t a responsibility you went looking for, I realize. But there it is, your burden to bear, given to you because you are one of only a few who can shoulder it. You, Bremen, Risca, and Tay Trefenwyd—the last of the Druids. Just the four of you, because there is no one else, and perhaps there never will be.”
“I don’t care,” she murmured dully. “I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” he insisted. “You all do. If you didn’t, the struggle with the Warlock Lord would have been finished long ago, and we would all be dead.”
They stood looking at each other in the ensuing silence, like statues left standing amid the ruins of the city.
“You are right,” she said finally, her voice so soft he could barely hear her. “I do care.”
She moved against him, lifted her face to his, and kissed him on the mouth. Her arms slipped around his waist and held him to her. Her kiss lasted a long time, and it was more than a kiss of friendship or gratitude. Kinson Ravenlock felt something grow warm deep inside that he hadn’t even known was there. He kissed Mareth back, his own arms coming about her.
When the kiss was finished, she stayed pressed against him for a moment, her head lowered into his chest. He could feel her heart heat He could hear her breathing. She stepped back and looked at him without speaking, her huge, dark eyes filled with wonder.