The Fall of Lord Blackthorn

By Book

She reached up and brushed his hair. "And I wish to be with thee," she smiled, even as she wept. "Thy face, thy friendship, 'tis what kept me going, even as they watched me struggle, curse, and cry. They were always there, somewhere. When I could not see their eyes, I could feel them. The hate, the fear, the lies . . ." Her hand dropped to her side. He took it again, and it gave her enough strength to continue. "They kept me alive. There are . . . things down there, creatures I have never seen, creatures of darkness and strength not known to Britannia. But even they would not approach me, not with the wraiths nearby." She looked up at him. "How long was I gone? I have been afraid to ask."

"I am not certain," he replied. "Two months, at least. No more than four."

"An eternity," she breathed. "I welcomed the waters when I fell into them. The rapids embraced me, stole my sight and my breath, and dragged me down. I welcomed it, but the wraiths. They would not let me die. So I spiraled, down and down, drowning, but not dying, down and down . . ." She looked up at him, her smile faint. "I remember thinking that I would never see thee again, that I could never tell thee again how much I loved thee . . . And then, I was here, in this bed, in thine enemy's home, and I was joyous, so joyous to be anywhere, to be anywhere except with the wraiths." She turned away, expression stricken. "Canst thou forgive me?"

He reached out and cupped her cheek, gently tilting her face toward his. "Shanna," he whispered, "there is nothing to forgive."

She smiled, closed her eyes. "I am glad." Her voice softened. "I am glad." She struggled to look at him, managed to open her brilliant eyes. "Dost thou remember the poem thou didst recite to me when we knelt before thy father's grave? The verse written upon thy mother's tree?" She could no longer keep her eyelids open. "I recited the last line to myself, over and over, while I was done there. Somehow, it kept me warm." Another breath, even quieter than before. "‘My heart is wrought of thy Light . . .'" Her recitation trailed into a murmur.

"‘And for thee, it shall never fade,'" he finished. She was delirious. She was right about the poem being written on his mother's tree, but there had never been a grave for his father. He kissed her brow. "I love thee, too, my friend, yet I never had the courage to tell thee before, and after thou didst not return, I was afraid that I would never have the chance." He kissed her again. "I love thee."

But she had fallen asleep, her breath faint and soft, so he wrapped his arms about her, rested his head against her breast, and was close to joining her in slumber when Whitelock hissed, "I did not raise thee to be a sentimental fool, boy."

Blackthorn jerked up and confronted the figure in the doorway. The candle within the room had burned out, and the only light came from the hall. Apparently, he had fallen asleep. "What dost thou want?" Blackthorn said, menacingly.

The voice that spoke was that of an elderly man, but not Whitelock's. "I apologize, my Lord. I did not mean to disturb thee. I only just returned and did not realize that thou wert still here. I should have checked with the innkeeper."

He was about to close the door, but Blackthorn stopped him. "Return? From where? Who art thou?"

The man held up the lantern he carried. His face was kind, full, and friendly. "Why, the healer, of course, my Lord. I was out collecting herbs for thy lady friend. She should be ready to leave in a few days."

He spoke something else, something in his kindly voice, but Blackthorn could not hear the words over the roar that surged through his senses. His vision, dulling and blurred, reeled across the room until it suddenly focused on the vial that the old woman had given him. The vial rested on the bed stand, but at some point in the evening, it had tipped over, and where the last of its contents had spilled, the wood beneath it was blackened.

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