The motes danced and swirled around Maeve’s face, the image of the tree growing stronger and stronger. Marek rolled back off his heels and sat hard on the floor and held his knees to his chest with one hand while running the other through his bushy hair. He stared and stared at the image etched in light. “Maeve,” he whispered, leaning forward again. “Maeve, I call to you in your Realm from my own.” The dancing lights around her head shuddered, but continued to pulse. “I am Marek, whose dominion is Gaia’s breath. I call to you in your Realm, and I ask you to come to mine. I ask this on bended knee.”
As the wind screams through the house, Maeve lifts her head. A voice comes through the air, a voice carried on the wind itself. She tilts her head toward the gales, concentrating on the sound beneath the roar.
Someone calls her name. A name she remembers from long ago. Before the storm.
It is a voice she knows; a voice as familiar to her as her own. A voice she has heard every day for as long as she remembers. The warmth of the voice carries through the bite of the sand pelting her from the blown-out windows. She rises to her knees.
“Come to me, please.”
She holds out her hand to the maelstrom around her.