“Fine.” He blew out a breath. “And after, if you don’t mind, I’d like a glass of that Irish of yours. Straight up.”
She managed a small smile. “Then you’ll have it. Come.” As she started toward the stairs, she chose her words carefully. “We have little time. He’ll work to break the spell. His pride will demand it, and my powers are more…limited than they were.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of it,” was all she would say. “And so is what I have to show you. It isn’t just me he wants, you see. He wants everything I have. And he wants the most precious treasure of the Castle of Secrets.”
She stopped in front of a door, thick with carving. There was no knob, no lock, just glossy wood and that ornate pattern on it that resembled ancient writing. “This room is barred to him by power greater than mine.” She passed a hand over the wood, and slowly, soundlessly, the door crept open.
“‘Open locks,’” Cal murmured, “‘whoever knocks.’”
“No, only I. And now you.” She stepped inside, and after a brief hesitation, he crossed the threshold behind her.
Instantly the room filled with the light of a hundred candles. Their flames burned straight and true, illuminating a small, windowless chamber. The walls were wood, thickly carved like the door, the ceiling low, nearly brushing the top of his head.
“A humble place for such a thing,” Bryna murmured.
He saw nothing but a simple wooden pedestal standing in a white circle in the center of the room. Atop the column was a globe, clear as glass.
“A crystal ball?”
Saying nothing, she crossed the room. “Come closer.” She waited, kept her hands at her side until he’d walked up and put the globe between them.
“Alasdair lusts for me, envies you, and covets this. For all his power, for all his trickery, he has never gained what he craves the most. This has been guarded by a member of my blood since before time. Believe me, Calin, wizards walked this land while men without vision still huddled in caves, fearing the night. And this ancient ball was conjured by one of my blood and passed down generation to generation. Bryna the Wise held this in her hands a thousand years past and through her power, and her love, concealed it from Alasdair at the last. And so it remained hidden. No one outside my blood has cast eyes on it since.”
Gently, she lifted the globe from its perch, raised it high above her head. Candlelight flickered over it, into it, seemed to trap itself inside until the ball burned bright. When she lowered it, it glowed still, colors dazzling, pulsing, beating.
“Look, my love.” Bryna opened her hand so that the globe rolled to her fingertips, clung there in defiance of gravity. “Look, and see.”
He couldn’t stop his hands from reaching out, cupping it. Its surface was smooth, almost silky, and warmed in his hands like flesh. The pulse of it, the life of it, seemed to swim up his arms.
Colors shifted. The bright clouds they formed parted, a magic sea. He saw dragons spewing fire and a silver sword cleaving through scales. A man bedding a woman in a flower-strewn meadow under a bright white sun. A farmer plowing a rocky field behind swaybacked horses. A babe suckling at his mother’s breast.
On and on it went, image after image in a blur of life. Dark oceans, wild stars, a quiet village as still as a photograph. An old woman’s face, ravaged with tears. A small boy sleeping under the shade of a chestnut tree.
And even when the images faded into color and light, the power sang. It flooded him, a river of wine. Cool and clean. It hummed still when the globe was clear again, tossing the flames of the candles into his eyes.
“It’s the world.” Cal’s voice was soft and thick. “Here in my hands.”
“The heart of it. The hope for it. Power gleams there. In your hands now.”
“Why?” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Why in my hands, Bryna?”
“I am the guardian of this place. My heart is in there as well.” She took a slow breath. “I am in your hands, Calin Farrell.”
“I can refuse?”
“Aye. The choice is yours.”
“And if he—Alasdair—claims this?”
She would stop him. It would cost her life, but she would stop him. “Power can be twisted, abused—but what is used will turn on the abuser, ten times ten.”
“And if he claims you?”
“I will be bound to him, a thousand years of bondage. A spell that cannot be broken.” But with death, she thought. Only with death. “He is wicked, but not without weaknesses.” She laid her hand on the globe so that they held it together. “He will not have this, Calin. Nor will he bring harm to you. That is my oath.”