* * *
They surrounded her, three elves and Zath. She knew two of them, thought she recognized the others. No words escaped her lips as Zath grabbed her. She simply reached inside of herself and let all of her glamour out.
It scorched her, spilled out of her in waves of pain. It burned and burned and burned and she could barely whisper the words that her scrystone picked up. But they also burned Zath, and that pleased her.
She had neither focus nor harmony. She should have died. Zath should have died. Her work, her research, her musings, her books should have burned.
But Tarlough was of Harmony and his very presence subdued the glamour, channelled it from death burns.
Sadoma dared to reach into the maelstrom of glamour, and it lashed out at him-
He burned, but did not die. A glint of gold and then the ring was about her finger and everything faded.
Distantly, she heard them speak. Distantly, she called herself a thousand kinds of fool. Derceto had warned her of this. Aboreal had warned her. She had warned herself. Distantly, oh so distantly, she felt the glamour still burning at her. Over a thousand miles of distance between her and Aboreal's scream of pain.
Distantly, Zath siezed her arm and shoved her inside her home. Faint magic surrounded them, took them to the great city. They slipped into barely there shadows, passed like ghosts among the townspeople.
In the far distance, Sadoma held glittering cluricaun dust up to her face and his words were so faint-
"Forget this day and all others until the enchantment is broken, siabra witch."
The darkness devoured her.
* * *
Someone shoved her forward. Why?-
Someone shoved her forward. What?-
Someone shoved her forward. Who?-
* * *
The blood flowed sluggishly from her arm into the glamour-sucking earth and pools. The land drank her blood, drank her spirit, drank her.
Her vision faded in and out of clarity, but it never went entirely dark. The morass devoured despair as wantonly as hope.
The silence of the Dead Lands ate at her as she lay in the mud, clutching her knife. Truly the cleric had been write when he called it the elf-hell. Adaniar-
The sucking morass ripped the unformed thought from her. She did not twitch.
Someone yelled her name, then warm arms surrounded her and clean cloth wrapped around her arms. The speaker muttered to himself, and she did not understand the words. But she knew that voice.
Isliffell.
A finger trailed through her blood, then lifted away.
And there came a slow, steady, wonderful trickle of glamour. It warmed her, restored her, but she did not, could not open her eyes. Weak. The mire devoured strength, then weakness. It left only carrion.
How did the Wild Hunt live here? How did those Sidhe-remnants withstand this?
The cloth was peeled back, and then came the prick of a needle entering her arm. It came and went, up and down the cut she had made to open the portal. Then those warm, strong arms picked her up and Isliffell began to run. They passed through a void for a moment-
* * *
The blood flowed sluggishly from her arm into the glamour-sucking earth and pools. The land drank her blood, drank her spirit, drank her.
Her vision faded in and out of clarity, but it never went entirely dark. The morass devoured despair as wantonly as hope.
The silence of the Dead Lands ate at her as she lay in the mud, clutching her knife. Truly the cleric had been write when he called it the elf-hell. Adaniar-
The sucking morass ripped the unformed thought from her. She did not twitch.
Someone yelled her name, then warm arms surrounded her and clean cloth wrapped around her arms. The speaker muttered to himself, and she did not understand the words. But she knew that voice.
Isliffell.
A finger trailed through her blood, then lifted away.
And there came a slow, steady, wonderful trickle of glamour. It warmed her, restored her, but she did not, could not open her eyes. Weak. The mire devoured strength, then weakness. It left only carrion.
How did the Wild Hunt live here? How did those Sidhe-remnants withstand this?
The cloth was peeled back, and then came the prick of a needle entering her arm. It came and went, up and down the cut she had made to open the portal. Then those warm, strong arms picked her up and Isliffell began to run. They passed through a void for a moment-
* * *
Liquid entered her mouth. What? -
Liquid entered her mouth. What? -
What was this wonderful taste? -
* * *
The blood flowed sluggishly from her arm into the glamour-sucking earth and pools. ...
The End