Free Silver Silence by Joy Nash Page A

was still on fire. No wonder. He’d plunged through a maelstrom of flame to come to this place.
    Wherever it was.
    How much time had passed since he’d fallen into the standing stone? Without moving, he opened his eyes. The sun was directly before him, low in the western sky. It had dropped little, if at all, since he’d cast his spell.
    The straps of his pack burned his shoulders. His harp. Shoving himself up on rigid arms, he heaved his body into a sitting position. The ground lurched, then steadied. Easing the pack from his shoulders, he cradled it between his bent legs. Astonishingly, neither the leather bag nor its contents was so much as singed.
    Rhys was unharmed as well. His clothing was whole, his skin unmarred. Only his soul had been seared, by magic so deep that one might have stacked ocean upon ocean within it.
    He tried to rise. A wave of debilitating fatigue struck. It was an effect of the deep magic he’d called to come to this place. Humans did not easily tolerate the power of the gods. This spell had been so powerful thatRhys’s own magic, along with his physical strength, had been drained severely. It would be a day at least, he estimated, before he recovered fully.
    He tried to lift his pack. It might have been a leatherwrapped boulder for all he was able to budge it. Pain cut through his skull with the ragged edge of an unhoned ax. With a low curse, he dropped into a crouch and pressed his fingers to his temples.
    Deep magic had wrung him out like a soiled washrag, then pounded him into the dirt for good measure. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to lie down. If he did, he feared he might not regain his feet for a very long while.
    He could do nothing but wait. Bit by bit, the pain and fatigue retreated. When he thought his legs could bear his weight, he drew a shaky breath and stood.
    He’d done it. He’d followed the unknown sorcerer’s spell into the Lost Lands. He wondered if Breena had passed through the fire, as he had. Most likely, she’d experienced a different trial. Was she nearby now? He could only hope…
    He looked about—truly looked—for the first time since opening his eyes.
    A curse sprang to his lips. He stood in the same meadow! The stone of the Great Mother stood just steps away. A hot wave of frustration assaulted him. He had not traveled anywhere. The Lost Lands had simply sucked him in, and spit him back out. He was seized by an urge to throw his head back and howl. Instead, he clung to his usual custom of bottling his rage, and scrubbing a hand down his face.
    He was so sure he’d recreated the sorcerer’s spell exactly. His utter failure was evidence that he had not. What error had he made? He did not know. Should he try again? Or find the others and tell them what he’d discovered? Perhaps it would be best to join forces withGwen and Owein in this. Together, they might succeed where Rhys had—
    His thoughts ceased abruptly. His gaze had fallen on the swamp. Gwen’s mists were…gone.
    Avalon was plainly visible, awash in a halo of late afternoon sunlight. Rhys’s first thought was for his twin. Gods! What disaster could have befallen her in the short time since he’d left her? Panicked, he grabbed his pack and ran toward the head of the trail leading down to the shore. But when he reached it, he paused.
    Something was not right. The swamp—it was not as it should be. Clumps of grass dotted the watery flatland. Where the water should have been smooth and blue, it was instead a bumpy, brackish green. What Rhys knew as a wide, glassy lake, was now shallow fenlands. Silty shoals broke its surface. The smell of the sea was faint. The tidal waters had receded to an impossibly low point.
    And Avalon itself? Shielding his eyes against the sun, he peered at the sacred isle. A cluster of stone buildings, one boasting a tall stone tower, was clearly visible in a place where there should have been nothing but grassy meadow. The play of light and shadow on the flat