The Gates of Infinity
By: Denyse Bridger
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Thaer is a world that mirrors our own, but
in many ways it is both the past and future of Earth. Magic and sorcery are
commonplace, and beneath the vast sands of Cairos and the waters of Venicia lie
secrets that may hold the key to travel between worlds and time itself. All
things are tied to the presence of a legendary pirate captain, a skilled mage,
and a sorceress who has never known her true origins. As the spells weave amid
treachery and betrayals, the tempestuous storm gates are opened and salvation
or destruction looms in their swirling, fiery depths. Will time be turned
inward, or can the Fate of two worlds truly rest on the success of a terrified
reporter from modern day New York? A woman whose fate was written in another
world and time, and who now holds the key to the unpredictable power contained
within the Gates of Infinity?
Content notes: Paranormal, Magic, Witches, Wizardry,
Urban Fantasy
Excerpt:
PART ONE
It
began several hundred years from now. Life conspires to take us where we are
meant to be, even when we do not ourselves know the direction in which we are
traveling. Thus it was that my uneventful existence began, and ended, with a
single drop of blood, spilled unsuspectingly on a honed and gleaming pirate
blade. In the now distant year of nineteen hundred ninety-nine, in the town of
Avalon Inlet, somewhere in the hidden coastal regions of Northern Maine, I
encountered the capricious Lady of Destiny. It is, even now, an incredible tale
of adventure and, yes, of romance that is the stuff of dreams. My name is
Verity, Veranna, or even Verianya--and if you will let me, I will tell you of
my assignation with a magical and thrilling life forever altered by the whims
of Fate...
* *
* *
"The entire place is a work of
art," Verity Mathison said with genuine reverence. She'd been stranded in
the picturesque town since the previous evening, when her car had quite
inexplicably decided it didn't want to go any further. Being a
journalist/novelist did have its advantages; in this case, as a freelancer, she
tended to not keep 'office hours'. Finding the small town with the fanciful
name of Avalon Inlet was a writer's dream come true. Not only was the place not
on any map, it was something out of a time long passed into history.
The young shop girl smiled, the expression
pretty with pleasure at the compliment.
"We're a small community," she
said, voice soft with a slight lilt. "Things don't change much from year
to year."
"Is everyone here of generations past,
or does the town have any new blood?"
"Once in a while strangers find us and
decide to stay," she answered, still smiling, though with less sincerity
than before.
"Why aren't you on the map?"
Verity wondered, looking around the crowded antique shop. There were vast
riches in this place, the writer mused, examining a display of weaponry that
had to be at least a couple of centuries old. Since she had entered the shop, a
tiny thrill of excitement had been growing stronger within her as the minutes
passed. In spite of the lack of sense in it, Verity felt as though she'd found
some lost part of her soul reflecting back at her as she examined the array of
artifacts that filled the quaint shop.
"How much is that one?" she
asked, pointing to the shiniest and least ornate of the swords that were
arranged on a wall behind the counter.
"It's not for sale," the clerk
told her, eyes now sharp, thoughtful, and unmistakably wary.
So that's your game, Verity thought with
cynicism. The price had just jumped considerably, she knew. But, like
everything else, it would have a price.
In spite of her decree, the girl reached up
and lifted the shimmering blade from its place amid the other swords. Motion
fluid and graceful, she spun the cutlass and offered it to the curious
stranger, hilt first.
With a combination of near-fear and
undeniable excitement, Verity stared at it. The lurch of her stomach was
eloquent testimony of her surprisingly intense nervous state. With a will of
its own, her hand rose and she watched in detached fascination as her fingers
closed around the well-worn grip of the archaic weapon. As soon as her hold was
solid, she was forced to drop the sword; heat seared her flesh and she cried
out, cursing furiously as the pain pulsed upward along the length of her arm.
The shaken clerk stared at her as though
she'd gone mad.
It wasn't the pitying look one gave a
lunatic, however. There was sincere terror in her eyes as she watched the other
woman, and Verity knew she didn't help the situation by glaring at her in
unjustified accusation. That didn't lessen her anger, of course, because
somewhere inside her, she did blame the hapless girl for not warning her of the
potential threat in accepting the sword from her hands.
Not waiting for comments, or assistance, if
the girl was indeed planning to offer any, Verity turned on her heel and left
the shop. As she glanced back, she caught the name of the place, The Mahjrah
Treasure Chest. She was now quite unimpressed with the pirate's plunder.
* *
* *
The following day, fool that she sometimes
was, Verity returned to the Treasure Chest and again was drawn like a magnet to
the rack of weapons on the back wall. The sword hung in its place, seeming to
stare back at her in subtle challenge.
"Have you come back for old Ehtionne's
sword, miss?"
The girl from the previous day was gone; in
her place was an ancient man, stooped and weathered by time. But, his eyes were
sparkling with vitality and shrewd intelligence. As Verity gazed into those
keen dark eyes, the sensation of edgy excitement began churning deep within her.
"Ehtionne?" She repeated, at a
loss to form more than the single word query.
He nodded, then hobbled around the counter
and gestured for her to follow him. They stopped in a small alcove that was
separated from the main area of the shop by a curtained doorway. Once inside,
Verity discovered a tiny gallery of aging paintings. The old man pointed to the
largest of the collection and her heart felt like it wanted to grow wings and
leave her body as she stared at the face of a stranger who'd haunted her dreams
from childhood.
"My God!" she breathed in
unequivocal shock. "He's real."
The old man looked inordinately pleased,
and she tried not to resent him; there was no reason for such emotion.
"You recognize him."
It was more a statement of presumed fact
than any form of real question.
Verity shook her head.
"No," she denied. "I must
have seen his face in books. I've researched this area's folklore and pirate
legends." Even as she made the assertion, and tried desperately to believe
it, she knew it to be a lie. The old man knew, too, she could read it in his
steady brown eyes.
"There are no photos of Mahjrah in any
of your books, miss," he assured her in a soft, almost regretful tone.
As she had the day before, Verity ran. This
time she didn't escape the confines of the shop. When she flung aside the
curtain and would have bolted for the doors, she ran straight into the young
girl who'd been there the previous day.
"What are you doing?" she
demanded, her voice and eyes glaring with anger.
"Leaving," Verity snapped, her
responding irritation more reflex than anything genuine.
"That part of the shop is not open to
the public," she informed the visitor. "It's our storage room."
"Storage room?" Verity repeated
stupidly. Anger flared in the next instant, and she glowered at her. "The
old man took me in there," she told the annoying girl. "And it sure
as hell doesn't look like a storage room!"
The clerk was giving her that disturbing
look of pity and fear again.
Verity was furious.
"If you don't believe me," she
snarled at the shop girl, "he's still back there." She turned, yanked
aside the curtain, and was met with the solid presence of a heavy door, the
sign in the center of it proclaiming that it was to be used by 'Employees Only'.
"If you'll wait, ma'am," the girl
said, ice in her tone now. "I'll allow you to speak to the manager."
Gawking at her, Verity numbly trailed her
back into the main room, then watched her disappear behind another door.
Silence engulfed the shop and she continued to look at the partially revealed
doorway that had led to the small gallery.
"Are you still interested in the
cutlass, miss?"
The voice went through her, and she was
enraged anew. She whirled around and the old man smiled benevolently.
"What the hell is going on here?"
she demanded, taking a step toward him.
He calmly walked to the other side of the
counter and took the sword from its mounting. He twirled it with remarkable
skill and Verity took an involuntary step backward when he held it out for her
to take.
"No, thanks," she assured,
sarcasm in the tone. "I've already had that experience once, and it's
quite enough."
He appeared amused all over again and wrath
rose in her throat as a bitter bile. He was laughing at her!
"All right," Verity snapped viciously.
"Give me the damn thing."
Her fingers closer over the hilt and she
braced for pain.
It never came.
Enthralled by the feel of the weapon in her
hand, she stared at it. Her other hand rose to stroke the smooth, cool metal of
the saber and a whisper of something powerful trembled along the length of her
arm. Oblivious to anything else, she touched the edge of the silvered blade
with the side of her thumb. A prick of pain warned her that she'd tested
well-honed metal rather foolishly. Blood welled and spilled onto the blade, a
single crimson teardrop of life.
The reaction was immediate, and terrifying.
The polished metal clouded, became
translucent, tinged with the scarlet of blood; then the images began to
coalesce before her spell-bound gaze. The small shop in Avalon Inlet no longer
existed. Her head felt like it was spinning, and reality growing ever more
distant, yet closer, as well. Someone screamed as Verity fell into the chaos
that she'd glimpsed in the gleaming blade of the sword...
* *
* *
...Madness exploded around her as she was
thrust into the waning battle she'd been witnessing from the safety of the
small antique shop. Dazed and stumbling, she fell against something hard and
painfully solid as she tried vainly to remain on her feet amid the turbulent
motion. Voices crowded into her consciousness and she was finally able to focus
on her surroundings.
"My God!" Verity whispered
uselessly, staring in complete disbelief. She looked down at her hands, saw
they still gripped the sword. It no longer glowed and shimmered, the only
mystical property it presently possessed was its blinding reflection of a
blistering sun when it flitted from behind heavy storm clouds.
"Veranna!"
The voice was close to her ear and she
turned to see who spoke.
A stranger looked back at her, but it was
evident that he felt he knew her. As she gaped at him, drinking in his handsome
features, he began to yell, frantically trying to gain someone else's
attention. She stared, let her gaze slide over him in appreciation. This man
was tall, fair-haired, and had the sharpest hazel eyes she'd ever seen. He was
lithe and graceful, maintaining his balance in apparent effortlessness as she
struggled to keep one hand gripping the sword while the other groped for what
she could now see was the side of a ship. There was sandy stubble on the
stranger's chin, and his thin-lipped mouth was a grimace of annoyance as he
shouted again.
After interminable minutes, they were
joined by another man.
When Verity looked at him, she knew she
truly had lost her mind.
"Veranna?" He was as surprised as
the other man had been, and also looked at her with recognition.
"Captain?"
The voice was hers, but the actual thought
process of speaking had somehow by-passed her brain, the utterance coming forth
of its own volition. Captain?
Before she could think too much, she was
swept into arms that threatened to steal the breath from her body. Inside her
head, she laughed at that thought--after all, wasn't she already dead? No, she
decided a moment later, she was definitely not dead! The magnificent man
crushing her in his embrace was kissing her now, and doing a thorough and
perfect job of it, too.
In the midst of a maelstrom, he created a
tempest that rivaled the battle around them. When he released her and held her
face between large, strong hands, she saw something deep within the earthy
brown gaze that left her feeling more secure and stable than she'd ever been
before.
"You've come back," he said,
still struggling visibly with his own certainty.
Again the phantom voice that was hers
answered him.
"How long have I been away?"
She decided then that she wasn't going to
think anymore, it only confused her.
"Since we passed through the
portal," he told her, gazing intently into her eyes. "You're not
really back, are you?"
She felt the frown gathering on her face
and concentrated on some kind of answer. Again, instinct gave her voice.
"I do not know, Captain," She
replied, voice soft, and looked around in curious wonder. "Has he found
you again?"
A heavy sigh escaped the imposing Captain
and he nodded.
"Doren, take command of the
ship," he ordered, then took her arm in a firm grasp.
The fair-haired first mate cast a final,
worried glance at her, but nodded curtly and left. The Captain led her below
deck and into a cramped but tidy cabin.
"Darius is persistent," the
Captain remarked, diverting momentarily to answer her earlier query. She nodded
vaguely and felt him watching in speculative interest as she walked around the
small space.
Veranna, she mused, considering the name
and the rightness of it. It was a name she had used once, surprised by how
natural it felt. She had never expected to hear it from a stranger. Her
attention was captured by a small table tucked into the far corner, and she went
to it, an increasingly familiar tremor of excitement fluttering within her
stomach. There was a careful order to the things that were arranged on the
table, and she studied them as intently as the handsome captain was presently
examining her. A square of burgundy was spread on the surface, a tasseled
corner draped casually over the edge. A curled parchment scroll rested amid
colorful streams of ribbon. Another area was occupied by items that she knew
represented the elements of nature, a miniature chest filled with rich, dark
earth; a fan shaped array of feathers, held together by a ring of pure gold,
polished stones and coral, and a series of curved seashells of various sizes
and origins. Opaque, almost translucent candles stood on each corner of the table,
and she stared for a few moments as the night sky itself swirled within them.
Faintly, she had the sense of music purring from their fitful depths.
Without thinking, she passed her hand over
the tops of the candles, a breath of displaced air stirring the power she
sensed in this part of the room. Flames winked into being, casting a golden
glow over the rough hewn planks that comprised the walls of the shipboard
cabin. The music grew louder, and the essence of it began to find a responding
harmony inside her.
Startled, Verity, Veranna, she corrected
mentally, stepped back. Her gaze went to the captain who waited with contained
patience. She could sense his restlessness arcing across the few feet of space
that separated them. His restlessness, and something as elemental as the
resonance of magic--his hunger for her.
"We need your help to escape this
storm, Veranna," he stated. "Darius will loose the assassins very
soon."
"My help?"
Fear rocketed through her.
"The Ghost is not far from us,
lady," he informed her with forced calm. "Your return could not have
been better timed."
"I can't help you, Captain..."
She shuddered as the warmth in his earthy eyes vanished, changing brown to
ebony as fury shaded them.
Ehtionne Mahjrah spared a final glance at the
stranger who wore his lover's face, aching from his soul as he fought the
desire to ravish her back to her senses. Veranna was a drug he had long ago
become addicted to, and despite the lack of recognition in her face, she did
belong to him. Her eyes were distant, frightened, but she was just as she had
been the night she'd vanished. Long, dark hair gleamed in the soft radiance of
the candles, her skin was honey-kissed, and the silks she wore concealed curves
he knew as intimately as his own body.
But, a small trick of flames was tiny magic
indeed when faced with the task he needed in order to escape the trap his old
enemy had sprung. The churning currents that were swirling around them had made
control of The Scarab impossible; they were all but at the mercy of Darius and
his crew. And that meant there would be no mercy whatsoever.
As he looked into her beautiful face, he
felt a pang of regret for the life they would never have. Veranna, he thought
sadly. She'd been bought at a slave market in a life that was so far from here
it no longer seemed real. Ehtionne had named her, cherished her, and nurtured
her through the emergence of power in her that neither of them had understood.
Now, they would die because her power had deserted them when it was needed
most.
"Lady," he murmured thickly,
emotions at war. He bowed his head in a curt jerk of motion then left her.
"Ehtionne..."
Veranna shook her head, blinded by
inexplicable tears. Her body shook with anguish that was senseless. She ran her
hands through her hair and tried desperately to focus on what was around her,
the gesture drawing her attention to the fact that she no longer held the
sword; when he'd taken it from her was something of a mystery, however. His
face, tight with repressed anger and despair, refused to leave her. The torment
grew with every lurch and crash of the ship.
* *
* *
"Will she help?" Doren asked when
the captain had returned to the bridge of the ship.
Mahjrah winced at the faint derision he
heard in his first mate's voice. He couldn't fault Doren for the emotion, the
man had suffered a great deal when Darius had captured both him and Veranna,
only to have her vanish and leave him to what would have been his death had The
Scarab not been closer than the enemy had anticipated.
"I don't think she is able to help
herself," Ehtionne replied, weary to his very soul. "It is unlikely
we can expect her assistance in escaping The Ghost this time."
Doren nodded. Apparently it was the answer
he had foreseen.
"Marcello!" he shouted, looking
upward to the crow's nest.
"The storm is passing away from
us," the lookout yelled down to them. "Darius is holding back,
Captain."
Mahjrah heard the disquiet in the sailor's
voice, but chose not to respond to it. He met Doren's hazel eyes, and the
challenge within their depths.
"He's waiting for us to move then
he'll launch his real attack. Isiress is aboard, and her witchcraft is working
against us."
"And we have none of our own!"
Doren snarled. Mahjrah's eyes contained explosive rage, and Doren wondered if
he had pushed the captain too far. He was as unpredictable as the weather when
it came to aspersion cast on Veranna; honesty prevailed most of the time, but
not always. Doren, himself, had always felt conflicting emotions about the
woman and her presence on board the ship. Their relationship had been one of
love/hate from the day they'd met.
Mahjrah's large hands tightened on the huge
ship's wheel and he bit back the curse that sprang to his lips.
"We will not need magic to defeat
Darius," he ground out, tone low with lethal promise. "I have bested
him every time we've engaged in combat, and this time will be no
different!"
Doren knew better than to pursue the
dangerous course he'd slipped onto, and he nodded, praying fervently that his
captain, and friend, would be heard by whatever gods protected them in this
alien realm. He spotted the cutlass that was again sheathed and hanging at
Ehtionne's hip; oddly, the presence afforded him both hope and comfort.
Ehtionne Mahjrah was a formidable man, and a more formidable adversary. Doren
owed him his life, and the loyalty of a friend who had never deserted him. He
also owed Ehtionne a debt that he knew nothing about, and, hopefully, he never
would.
"I'll order the men to ready for
battle, Captain," the mate said.
As Doren walked away, Mahjrah studied the
ocean. The water was still restless and volatile, but Marcello had been
accurate in his assessment of its slow calming. Cold spray splashed his face,
but it had gradually eased to the force of a chill misting, not the torrential
deluges of icy death that had battered them so short a time ago.
He held out his hand, knowing the second
mate was close by. A second later, the spyglass was placed in his palm. He
snapped it open and raised it to his left eye. The Pharaoh's Ghost was several
hundred meters away, and its crew was struggling to regain control of their
vessel, as were the crew of The Scarab. He would have time to plan an attack,
but not much.
* *
* *
Veranna dragged in several deep, steadying
breaths as she tried to find answers within her to things she felt she knew. It
was an instinct, nothing more. Or was it the look in Ehtionne Mahjrah's eyes
when she'd said she couldn't help him? Angry, she walked to the porthole in the
cabin, but saw little above the turbulent seas.
Seething, but not certain why, she glared
at the cabin.
When her spurt of temper sputtered out, she
walked to the small table where the mysterious items of power were so
meticulously arranged. She knew them to be symbols of magic. She didn't know
why she was so sure of it. She lifted the coverlet and saw that the table
wasn't really a table, but a cabinet. She pulled gently on the handle and
peered inside; startled to find more vials, as well as caskets with etched
rhunes on their lids, filled with powders and herbs, and other things she
wasn't certain she wanted to name. She brushed the embossed surface of several
of the containers and felt reverberating within her, the resonance of
individual tones and musical sounds of power. There was also a large assortment
of the mystical candles, each with different kinds of earth power represented
in their shifting cores.
"What do I do to help him?" she
murmured to the air, and sank to her knees for a moment when despair washed
over her in a tidal wave of dread.
She reached inside the cabinet and withdrew
several candles. Somewhere inside her, she did know the magic, the symbols of
power; slate blue skies filled with clouds would divine the power of the mind,
and motion--air; combine this with the symbol of freshly plowed earth to
increase the effect of any elemental alchemy with which it was paired.
She placed the candles carefully on the
surface of the table, with the peaceful field in the center of the circle of
power. After lighting the candles, she plucked a scarlet feather from the
fanned assortment and concentrated, trusting instinct and the escalating volume
of the music to tell her the precise moment to place it within the currents of
warm air ascending from the flames.
The sounds of screaming and chaos grew
distant, and she began to recite the words of the spell she was weaving...
* *
* *
"We're being boarded, Captain!"
Doren's shout of warning reached Mahjrah as
he ordered the second mate to take the wheel. Once he'd changed positions with
the young Venetienne sailor, Gianni, Mahjrah drew his cutlass and turned to
meet the first of the men who'd managed to climb onto his ship amid the crisis
of the storm. He realized, distantly, that the storm had been a distraction
created by Darius's witch.
Mouth set in a grim line, he launched into
the battle that was now raging on the decks of his treasured vessel. Darius had
taken full advantage of his distraction, he raged in silence. His enemy had
launched a small boat in their wake, and Mahjrah didn't doubt that those who
were boarding The Scarab were among the trained assassins who had traveled with
Darius's crew for many years. Ever since Ehtionne Mahjrah had all but wiped out
the Egyptian pirate and his vessel in a bloody battle raged a lifetime ago in a
world that was so different than the one in which they were presently trapped.
Mahjrah put aside his mental wanderings as
he met the first of the men who were trying to reach the ship's bridge. Swords
clashed in the fading glow of the sun as it prepared to slip beneath the shelf
of the horizon, and Mahjrah dispatched the man in front of him with a
dispassionate ease that came from years of meting out death to an enemy who
would have expected nothing less. He took no particular pleasure in death, nor
did his conscience suffer much over his actions. The invaders were slowly
diminishing in number, though it was costing Mahjrah more men that he would
have expected. It had to end, and quickly, or his crew would be decimated to
the point that the ship would be easy prey for any passing marauder.
A cry behind him warned that someone had
gotten past him and he cursed furiously as he turned and saw what was
happening. Gianni was down, a crimson stain spreading over the front of his
shirt. The assailant was preparing to strike the death blow as Ehtionne ran
toward them, sheathing his sword as he leapt. In the small space, he would have
no room to wield the weapon effectively.
Without a second glance in the direction of
his second mate, Mahjrah reached for the attacking intruder. The knife he'd
used to stab the unsuspecting young mate was descending for the second strike
when Ehtionne stepped in front of Gianni, using himself as a shield.
Gianni slumped backward, met the solid wall
of the bulkhead, and slid down to the deck. In dazed fascination he moved his
hand to his right side, covering the wound and feeling the sticky flow of warm
blood.
A flip of Mahjrah's wrist relieved the
assassin of control of the weapon, as Ehtionne intercepted the slashing hand
and caught the man's wrist in a bone-breaking grip. Using the momentum of the
swing, Ehtionne redirected the blade's aim as he grabbed a handful of hair and
pulled forward.
He felt the razor-edged steel slide under
the attacker's chin, penetrate through vulnerable flesh and come to an abrupt
halt when the hilt met the torn throat. The tip of the knife grazed his
fingertips. The long blade had pierced the back of the dying man's neck and
Mahjrah yanked the knife free with a jerk as he let the body fall.
From the corner of his eye, he saw another
stranger coming toward him. Mahjrah closed the distance with ghostly speed.
When the first body fell inches away from
his feet and the man's head lolled to face him, Gianni grimaced and turned
aside, his stomach emptying onto the deck. Mahjrah had no time to comfort the
young man. Foaming bubbles of blood spilled from the open mouth of the corpse
and still more of the thick liquid gushed in a quickly fading stream from the
gaping hole in his throat. Tiny crimson squirts continued to pulse out even
after the man's eyes rolled into a death mask. The young mate flinched away a
second time only to meet the unyielding resistance of solid wood behind him. He
tried to close his eyes, but fear wouldn't allow it. He looked up at his
captain through a haze of unreality.
The second assailant had barely regained
his unsteady footing when Ehtionne Mahjrah struck, slamming the heel of his
hand against the man's face.
Mahjrah heard the distinct crack of bones
followed by an agonized wail. Ignoring both, he pulled the crumpled figure
erect and launched him backward against the side wall, oblivious to the red
smear that stained the ruined face.
"Who sent your ship after us?" he
growled, bringing the knife up to hover menacingly close to the other man's
terrified eyes. When a frenzied shake of his head was the only response,
Mahjrah smiled with pure malevolent iciness. "One more chance," he
offered, his tone as lethal as the circling blade.
He lowered the knife, deliberately bringing
the tip to rest in the hollow of his victim's throat and pressing hard enough
to puncture skin. As a tiny drop of blood welled up around the small wound,
Ehtionne allowed the blade to inch down as he continued to hold the fear-filled
stare. He could see the man's mind working, weighing the terror he was facing
against the one waiting at the end of this failed boarding mission.
Mahjrah knew the outcome of that debate
before the attacker did and was prepared when the man bolted. The blood soaked
knife dipped downward and rose again, sliding beneath the sternum to pierce the
heart. A warm gush of blood over his hand made the weapon slippery. This time
he released the handle of the knife and let it stay with the body, which sagged
to the deck with a dull, liquid thump.
The captain closed his eyes and dragged in
several gasping breaths as he dimmed the pounding in his ears to a faint roar.
A moment was all he had to compose himself for the next wave of Darius's
assault. It became irrelevant seconds later when The Scarab began to rise from
the churning waves still battering her sides.
Men screamed, bodies attempting to scramble
onto the ship fell into the wildly thrashing waters, and above the mayhem
Mahjrah heard Doren's laughter. He looked, found the first mate's triumphant
eyes amid those staring back at him, and he shook his head in wonder.
"Veranna..." he murmured in
disbelief.
The vessel began to tremble, and he shouted
orders to his men. Those still alive were moved to relative safety, bodies were
unceremoniously dumped into the waiting arms of the sea, and they took
prisoners to replace those who had died defending The Scarab.
* *
* *
Sweat popped out on her brow as she
concentrated on the spell she'd created. The feather was swirling mere breaths
above the candle flames, held aloft by the heat. She knew it wouldn't last for
much longer, the music was reaching a deafening crescendo inside her head; when
the feather fell into the flames and sizzled into ash, the magic would be gone.
Desperately, she grabbed a seashell and
filled it with earth and shards of coral, then placed it in the centre of the
circle of flickering candles. More words spilled from her lips, the music grew
to painful intensity within her and she closed her eyes, focusing her fear as a
power in its own right. As the motion of the ship grew erratic and unstable,
she gripped the edge of the table and held tight.
* *
* *
"Do something!"
Darius's voice was whipcord sharp with rage
as he watched The Scarab spinning wildly, caught in a vortex that was pure
magic. At his side, the witch Isiress, tried to undo the spell being woven
around the other vessel. She knew she wouldn't be able to neutralize Veranna's
spell, her awareness of the sorceress had come too late. They had grown
complacent, certain she was no longer a threat to them. Somehow, Mahjrah's
lover had found her way back to him, despite the witchcraft that had separated
them across time and dimension.
"Now!"
The shout, so close to her ear, made her flinch,
and the moment was truly lost.
As Darius watched, The Scarab vanished,
swallowed by the whirlwind that had risen around it in a maelstrom of foam,
waves, and billowing winds. His hands gripped the side of his ship, the
knuckles white.
"Where has he gone?"
There was something resembling reason in
his tone, but the witch knew it was deceptive.
"It will take time to locate
them," she told him quietly, fully prepared for the outburst of wrath her
words would incite. Oddly, it never came. He merely turned, met her cool, dark
gaze, and nodded.
"Do it quickly, Isiress," he
ordered firmly.
She watched as he walked away, her mind
preoccupied not with his instructions, but with her failure to keep Veranna at
bay...
Short
Author Bio and Links:
Canadian
born and bred, and a lifelong dreamer, I began writing at an early age and
can’t recall a time when I wasn’t creating in some artistic form. My life has
had several on-going love affairs that shape much of what I write. In the
past half dozen years, I’ve released books in all lengths and genres, and it’s
something I hope to continue to do for many more years. A visit to my websites
will show the diversity of what is currently available, as well as other
surprises and extras!
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