Falling Light (Game of Shadows #2)(48)

As she walked, she became aware of shadowed hedges that grew on either side of the path. The ragged tops of the hedges were higher than her head. The leaves rustled in a quiet breeze, lifting strands of her loose hair and pulling them across her face in a veil.

She ran her fingers through her hair and lifted the veil from her eyes. She wore a simple cotton shift. The night was balmy and punctuated with a gentle symphony of crickets, so she was quite comfortable to have her arms and legs bare. The worn dirt path was easy on the soles of her feet.

She came to an old, battered door in the hedge. It was locked. She pounded on the door and yanked at the latch. Something heavy swung from a chain around her neck. Surprised, she looked down to discover an antique gold key swinging on a necklace between her br**sts.

She fingered the key, studying it by the moon’s pale smile, then fit it into the lock and turned it.

The door opened. She pushed it wide to discover an immense meadow filled with wildflowers. Dawn had begun to illuminate the meadow on the other side of the hedge. The rosy gold morning sun picked up lavender, red, yellow, white and blue blossoms dotting the thick green grass. Honeybees, bumblebees and hummingbirds flew from flower to flower.

Mary closed the door behind her before she began to explore the meadow.

She wasn’t sure if she should pick the flowers, so she contented herself with bending over the blossoms to discover which ones gave off the rich perfume that permeated the air. Soon her cheeks were dusted with pollen.

A golden eagle plummeted from the sky. She watched it reach into a rosebush, grasp a stem in its talons and rise into the air again. As it glided overhead it dropped the rose, which landed at her feet.

This place was giving itself to her. She picked up the rose, careful of its thorns, and walked through the meadow until she saw the edge of a dark green forest. Still curious, she walked to the far side of the meadow. As the forest came closer into view, she came upon the most enormous tree she had ever seen.

The tree was so tall it reached higher than a mountain. The top disappeared into clouds. She had never seen anything alive that was so colossal. The Eastern dragon she had called for healing would have fit in its branches. The Lake that had sung such a strange, sweet song to her could have nestled between two of its roots. She walked and walked until at last she could lean against the smallest of its roots and rest.

The tree lived, and died, and was born anew with green, growing promise. As she leaned against its root, she knew it held a secret in its strength. It was the same as the secret of the silver thread. Mary picked up one of the fallen leaves and tucked it behind one ear so that the leaf could whisper the secret to her.

A brook ribboned through the land beside the tree. She had walked for so long she had grown hot and thirsty, so she went straight to the water. It rushed in a silvery tumble over a bed of slippery rocks. She let the rose fall and watched as it floated away over the rocks. Then she scooped her hair away from her face so she could drink.

Now that she had reached the brook, she realized it tumbled down to the sea. A wide tan beach stretched just ahead, and more old, tangled forest, and a glimpse of an ancient gray wall of ivy-covered stone. It looked like the corner of a wall or a building.

She searched for a place where she could ford the tumbling water. Nearby, a wide area was shallow enough she could pick her way across.

Running water for protection, she thought.

Or perhaps she didn’t think. Perhaps the brook whispered it to her as the cold water swirled around her calves. Or the leaf that she had tucked behind her ear told her, as it murmured of the sacred green places of Earth.

On the other side of the brook, she walked along the beach and looked over the white-capped waves. She would have liked to swim and explore the water’s edges, but first she needed to discover what story the old stone building would tell her.

She picked her way through the lush, tangled growth surrounding the ruins. At last, under the shadow of a white oak, she reached an open place where she could see the building.

It was the ruins of an ancient chapel. The door and windows were long gone but their arching frames, outlined in stone, still stood. The roof had long since caved in and decayed. She could see through the open arch of doorway that gold sunlight dappled the grassy green floor.

A bird flew by in the forest, trilling madly. Inside the chapel, the air was old, silent and still. The power that filled the place sank into her bones. The place might stand in ruins but it was still holy.

Bracing herself with a slim hand on a granite arch, she took a tentative step over the debris in the doorway. As she stepped inside, intense recognition flooded her.

“I know this place,” she breathed, eyes wide.

She was familiar with every moss-covered rock in this place. In wonder, she walked along one wall and saw that underneath the tangle of ivy, each stone bore a carved inscription. Careful to avoid breaking the vines, she pulled the curtain of ivy aside and read the word on the first stone.

Marah.

The stone beside it bore the word, Mearr. The one underneath that read Muire.

Then onto the next. Moire, Maryse, Miryam, and on the oldest stone closest to the ground was inscribed the word Myrrh.

All were variations of her name.

She backed away from the chapel wall and stumbled against a waist-high black stone that was an altar. She put both hands on its pitted surface as she leaned against it for stability.

Power welled from the black stone, pouring through the fragile flesh of her hands. She felt it like the roar of an oncoming tornado as the noonday sun spilled down on her head and blinded her.