“Tell me.”
“Take the key. Lock the door.” Her stomach pitched. Bile splashed against the back of her throat. Cosmina swallowed and stayed on task. “One full crank to the left, and it will close again.”
“The locking mechanism?”
“Right-hand side. Eye level.”
Grabbing the key, he lifted the necklace over her head. A quick shift, and he tossed it to one of his comrades. “Shay.”
The warrior caught it mid-volley and spun toward the door. “On it.”
Shivering hard, Cosmina glanced toward the center of the chamber. Thank the gods, it was just as she remembered. Round room. Huge megaliths forming a circle around the perimeter. Cut from the Carpathian Mountains, rising twenty feet toward the ancient dome, the stone uprights gleamed in the low light. The Chamber of Whispers. The most holy of places. Birthplace of the Goddess of All Things on earth.
Finally. At last. She’d made it.
Gears ground into motion. Stone scraped across tile as the wall closed, shutting out the glow of blue flame, along with the enemy. Shay locked the door, then turned away from the entrance. His eyes narrowed on Cosmina, he pulled the key from the stone lock. “’Tis done, H.”
“Good,” Henrik said, his focus steady on Cosmina. “Look for another way out.”
As his friends moved to obey, Cosmina switched tack. Safe from the Druinguari, yet only halfway to her goal. Forcing herself to refocus, she stared at the space between two megaliths. Not long now. Ten—mayhap twenty steps at most—and she’d be standing where she needed to be: on the raised stone platform inside the stone henge. Setting her courage, she braced for the pain and shifted toward the dais.
Henrik held on, refusing to let her go.
“Unhand me.”
“I do and you’ll fall on your face.” Leather creaked as his grip on her tunic tightened. “The arrow needs to come out, Cosmina. Now. Before—”
“Later,” she whispered, her tone a soft plea for understanding. “Please, Henrik, let me go. My injury can wait, but the rite cannot. It must be done now.”
His gaze narrowed a fraction. “What rite?”
She shook her head.
“Christ. Mica vrăjitoare . . . stubborn to a fault,” he growled. Swaying in his hold, Cosmina huffed. She shouldn’t find it funny but for some reason she did. Whether he intended it or not, the statement sounded more like praise than insult. “Where do you need to go?”
“Inside the circle.” Her hand shook as she pointed past the megaliths. “Center of the dais.”
With another curse, he shifted to her good side and picked her up. She gritted her teeth, smothering a grimace. The gods be swift and merciful, what a tangle. Injured. Weak. Reliant on a man. The trio of faults were not her usual fare. She prided herself on keen eyes, steady hands, never-say-die fortitude, and in her ability to rely on all three. Tonight, though, she’d missed the mark. Now fate forced her to admit that Henrik was all she had . . . here, now, in this moment. And as he cradled her close and strode into the sacred circle, she decided that sometimes asking for a little help went a long way.
“Here?” he asked, stopping at the edge of the dais.
“Here’s good.”
Pulling his forearm from beneath her knees, he swung her feet to the floor. Her arm squawked. Cosmina winced and smothered a groan. Muscled arms flexing around her, Henrik murmured her name. His tone said it all. He wanted her to be reasonable. Sensible. Rational. Call it whatever the situation warranted, but—
Cosmina shook her head, refusing to acknowledge his plea. Or the underlying current at play between them. No matter how necessary, her reliance on him unsettled her. She didn’t like it any more than the motive behind his agenda. She knew what he wanted—for her to acquiesce while he tended her injury. Why he cared, she couldn’t understand. He didn’t know her. She wasn’t his concern. But as her arm throbbed and she started to tremble, temptation circled, urging her to lean on him. To become his responsibility. To allow him to take her pain away.
’Twould be so easy to do.
But she refused to go that way. Forget here and now, ’twas the future that worried her. The precedent must be set. Naught good would come from relying on him. Or making him believe she needed him.
Meeting his gaze, she pressed her palm to his chest and pushed. Henrik didn’t budge. She shoved again. As his arms slid from around her, she sank to her knees in the middle of the platform. “Back away. Give me some room.”
“Cosmina, let me—”
“Please, Henrik,” she whispered. He growled something obscene, and Cosmina started to pray. She needed him off the dais. Couldn’t afford the distraction, never mind the time spent arguing with him. “Just . . . please.”
Her please did him in. With a snarl, he stepped back, leaving her alone on the dais.
And Cosmina didn’t hesitate.
Elbows tucked to her side, she drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then exhaled long and smooth. Another lungful. In. Out. Inhale and release. The rise and fall of her chest helped center her. Time to focus. Time to embrace her past and do what needed to be done. Closing her eyes, Cosmina bowed her head, settled into the cradle of her mind, and forced herself to concentrate.
The words—the words—she must remember each one.
Recall flashed. Deep-rooted memory rose, serving up the ancient rite.
“Great goddess of the moon, of shadow and light, hear me now. I come to you in this . . . most sacred of places, on a Sabbath blessed by a winter moon. Guide me with your power. Imbue me with your light. Grant me grace so that I may . . . may . . .”
As Cosmina paused, searching for the next phrase, a familiar vibration buzzed in her veins. The hum expanded beneath her skin, pushing the pain aside. Knowledge stepped into the breach, then gained speed, rushing the rest of the incantation along in the goddess’ native tongue. Cosmina sighed, her relief instantaneous. Gods, it had been too long. So many months. So many years. Far too long since she’d heard the language of the gods—the one always spoken inside High Temple. Tipping her head back, she became a channel, allowing the divine words to flow off her tongue and meld with musical notes, marrying intent with a melodic chant.
Singing.
She was singing again.
After five years of near silence. After overcoming every hardship. After all the heartache. Here she knelt, serving the goddess inside White Temple—righting a wrong, resurrecting her family honor, following in her mother’s footsteps. The thought made her voice stronger. Clear as a bell, beautiful as birdsong, she hit each note as her childhood came back to embrace her. Happy years sped past, then turned ugly, reminding her of dark days. Cosmina shoved the memories aside. All faded in the face of renewal and return. Here, now, in this place . . .
She belonged.
Ylenia, the late High Priestess of Orm, couldn’t hurt her anymore. And despite her mother’s passing, Cosmina knew the goddess was right. All things happened for a reason: all the pain and desolation, every one of her mother’s attempts to shield her from Ylenia’s savagery, even her mother’s death at the hands of the High Priestess. Terrible in every way. Now, though, Cosmina could see the connection. The strife—all the heartache—had served its purpose, preparing her for this moment, helping her understand her gift better and why Ylenia had coveted it.
A powerful oracle was a matchless weapon. Foreknowledge equaled mastery, the kind skilled manipulators wielded without mercy. In the right hands, it shaped countries, shifted the balance of power, and built strong alliances. In the wrong ones, it caused horrific tragedy.
War. Strife. Famine. Once powerful empires reduced to complete ruin.