The lighting of it seemed purposeful, as if it was a beacon meant to lead one home—though that certainly could not be the purpose here, which was surely to lead one to one’s death. Still, for nothing would Gaenor pull back or allow herself to be overtaken by the guard she had foiled. Fortunately, D’Arci’s men rode two astride, giving her the advantage of some seconds, which was what was required to reach her destination. She urged her mount onto the clearing. However, no sooner did she pick out Beatrix’s figure that lay at its center and the red-bearded man who bent over one of her outstretched arms, than something blindingly bright and searingly hot struck her left shoulder. She cried out as she lost the saddle and the reins tore into—and out of—her hand. Landing hard, she distantly perceived the rock-strewn ground that sought to break her, the whinny of horses, and the clop of hooves. More closely, she frantically questioned where her breath had gone and the reason all was now dark when moments earlier the clearing had been lit.
