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brought the sun's warmth to him, as the lethargy of nighttime crept away. His concentration waned
slightly as his adjunct stole up to him and said, "The catapults are ready."
"Not now! I have him! Get away from me. Post a watch. Send me the scribe." All this through gritted
teeth. Denethan dare not lose the contact, not when he had spent the better part of two days searching
for it. Who was this unknown wrestling with him? He had Talent, no doubt of that Denethan could
not reach anyone without it was he one of the fabled Protectors? If so& .
Denethan drummed his nails upon the rock. He could not have contact without Talent and yet the
better the contact, the better the ability of the other to defeat him. It was like a handshake& the more
openhanded, the more sincere the gesture, unless the other got a grip on him that could bring him to his
knees.
"I am here, Denethan," the scribe said mildly and curled up on a rock near Denethan's feet.
The man opened his eyes a slit and saw the scribe. The scribe was aged, had worked for Denethan's
father. His thin hair was blue-white, his eyelids sagged over weary eyes, but the hand that held the pen
was steady. Denethan closed his eyes again as soon as he ascertained that the other hand and two
supple, bared feet were empty of weapons.
Although, as Denethan well knew, even a pen could be a weapon. His father's life had ended with one
buried in his jugular.
He spared enough energy to signal the other to wait silently and record what Denethan said.
Chapter 10
Lady Nolan rode slowly. She let her mule pick out its own road in its wisdom and watched Thomas
instead. His weather-beaten face paled as the trance dragged him under like a drowning man, and she
wondered if he would awaken again. There were lines carved like deep crevices in his face and his eyes
looked sunken. The ghost road had taken a terrible toll and left him almost defenseless against
Denethan's psychic attack.
Never in all the learned history of Protectors had they dueled with an enemy such as this. She had felt it
when Thomas broke Denethan's storm before and she could feel the incandescent energies now& she
was like a moth twirling in the light motes before a lantern, drawn to it and knowing that for the sake of
her life she must not enter.
She reached over and gently disentangled Thomas' now limp white scarf from around his neck. His
gills were flared, rose-pink with exertion. She dampened the scarf with the meager supply left in her
canteen and replaced it hopefully. Thomas' head bobbled about on his neck.
She watched anxiously for burnout, the sudden nova of power that could leave him a mere shell of a
being. Her mentor Nolan had been destroyed doing mental exercises he was no longer empowered to
do. Burnout was like the brilliant guttering of a candle just before it drowned in its own melted wax.
The sky darkened. Her ears popped as the air pressure dropped suddenly, and thunder rumbled. Lady
looked about. Clouds of slate and ebony arced over the browning foothills. She smelled rain as well as
salt air. But the swirl of activity covered a small area and she and Blade were its epicenter.
Lightning struck behind them on the road. The air filled with the smell of burning pitch. The ground
thrilled as the shock wave rolled under them, and both mounts danced nervously. The display was not
as dark and dangerous as that which had threatened them on the peninsula. Both Denethan and Thomas
had to be nearing the bottom of their stamina.
Cindy stumbled, nearly pitching Thomas over her neck. He did not react to save himself Lady caught
him and almost lost her own seat. She looked about her in irritation, wondering if she should lash him
to the saddle, and not finding a spare strap to do it with. She reined up Murphy, dropping back to the
black mare's flanks to search Thomas' saddlebags.
She found the rope almost immediately. She pulled out the coil, relieved she would not have to paw
through his personal effects further. He mumbled as she tied his wrists together and loosely tethered
him to the saddle horn. She kept the end of the rope wrapped about her own saddle horn to jerk him
free if she needed to. Better he should fall than be dragged by the mare if she bolted.
Irritation crawled up her spine. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck, under the mane of her hair.
She blew, angling her breath toward her forehead, cooling her face briefly, wishing for her straw hat. If
only rain would fall. A wind current tore through, expiring as quickly as it came up. She thought of the
paralight on a storm-ridden thermal and fretted over Jennifer and Ramos. Several fat drops of water
beat down and stopped.
The clouds swirled away, boiled off by a relentless sun. Did that mean Thomas held, or even was
winning? She dared not guess, but kept the mule and the mare pointed relentlessly toward Zuma Beach.
Her hair crackled in the residual static electricity that hovered about Thomas like an aura.
She was not used to extended riding, and her thighs chafed horribly as the high noon sun beat down on
her head and they rode through the foothills, and down to the beach side. The ocean's sparkle hit her
sight with a blinding flash of gray-blue, but its breeze brought a welcoming coolness to her flushed
cheeks.
She pulled both animals to a halt. Thomas stirred for the first time in the last several hours. His lips
were cracked. They were glued together and flakes sloughed apart reluctantly as he mumbled
something.
Lady leaned close. "What is it, Thomas?"
"Ground. Ground me."
Puzzled, she straightened. Was that what he had said, or was he groaning? Why not, "Let me down?"
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