“Your daughter is in danger, no matter what she does, Mathena, for she rushes now to a confrontation with your greatest enemy. If she travels through the void, there is no greater danger than what she faces in the real world. Steady yourself, dear grandchild. Your child is equipped as no other has ever been. All we can do it help her to learn to use what she has been given.”
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Mathena said tremulously. “Although my mind is still in unrest, you have eased the burden somewhat. Would it be possible to learn to travel the void? Would you teach me?”
Eliandor flicked the reins on his stallion, urging him to greater speed. “Yes, I can teach you, but it is more dangerous for you, having only the one gift. Without the power of the Old Ones’ magic, you would have little help in returning if you were lost.”
She mused over his words and then wiped the dust from her face, giving herself time to respond carefully.
“If I could see my child, it would be worth the danger. She must know we are coming to her, to fight this battle with her. I am willing to go, if you will show me.”
“Let me think on it, Mathena. I will tell you my decision by nightfall.” He galloped away from her then, obviously conflicted by her request.
The rest of the day passed quickly, with a light meal shared at midday by the group. All were quiet, reflecting upon their futures. That night as they made their camp in a portion of the skimpy forested area by the river, Eliandor called the seven women together to hear what he had to say. His voice was strong, as always. The words he spoke belied his age, giving them more confidence in his leadership.
“You must know Mathena’s request, to travel the void and approach the girl. She would do this knowing the danger of losing her way. The void is a terrible place full of twists and turns, with thin recesses leading to a deeper, darker netherworld. She is your family, and your thoughts should be considered. Once, I made a decision that affected all of you, possibly in the worst ways possible. I do not wish to repeat my error. You will decide if Mathena travels to find her daughter. You may not travel with her, but your presence here would be a lifeline for her to follow should she be lost. I ask now, sisters of Mathena, will you give permission for her to make this dangerous journey, or will you hold against it? Before you ask, I do not believe it would be wise for her to go.”
Mathena sat by herself on a flat rock, her dress falling between bent knees, head leaning toward the pebbled ground. She would abide by her sisters’ wishes, as she had for those many years whenever a vote was taken. The decision to let Yahmara live had been her sisters’ wish, not her own. She had wanted to destroy her forever and for all time, but the sympathetic vote was to let the witch live. Even so, with what they were now facing, Mathena was a loyal and loving friend, and would not go against her commitment to her sisters.
There was little time wasted in discussion. The vote was for aye: let her go into the void. They settled and waited while Eliandor spoke softly to Mathena, guiding her with his words to the depths of her consciousness, leading her for a while then standing back as she began the trip alone. Darkness filled her head, waving darkness as though rows of wheat blew in a black wind. Her footsteps were unsure, but did not falter as she moved forward toward an open door. The entry was small, lower than her head, and required crawling through as though it were a rabbit hole. She saw a trail that bloomed red in the darkness, with white lines leading forward. She called for Breanna and waited for her answer, but there was no sound except her own footsteps resounding in the empty tunnel.
Breanna, my child, I come to you. Show me the way. Strong emotions flew from Mathena into the void, but returned in painful waves. She felt sadness, and sobbed for the child who was taken from her. Yet all was empty and quiet in the tight-fitting tunnel. She scraped her mind against the soft sides of the narrow trail. Finally a light shone brightly in the distance, and Mathena grew anxious, eager to see and speak to her child. She was almost there. She was there at the door. But wait, no, not that. The way was barred by crossed green lances, the likes of which she had seen before in the house at Pentara Haven.
Mathena heard voices, first her grandfather’s, then her sisters’. They called for her to return, and guided her back, down the narrow trail, back through the space so small she had to squeeze through. The opening had shrunk in the time since she entered the void. An hour later, she awoke to see seven concerned faces staring at her.
Shaking her head, she affirmed the sad news: there was no entry, no way to see and talk to Breanna. She looked into Eliandor’s eyes and said, “The Old Ones barred my passage and pushed me out. She is protected by them against her mother.”
“I had not considered the way might be blocked. There is nothing to be done if the ancients won’t allow you into the spectral realm. We must be grateful, aye, thankful you found your way back, Mathena. You were gone for such a long time. It is past the midnight hour. Your journey was long. Was it arduous?” he asked gently, hoping to ease her from the disappointment she felt.
“No…it was…small and narrow, with a bright track to her. I…was saddened and angry, but now I understand. She is protected.”
“Then we should all sleep, for tomorrow we must cross the Beltick Seaway, a major undertaking for some, but we shall find a small ship to carry us over. Keep heart, Mathena—you will see your daughter before many days have passed. Each road we travel brings us closer to our destiny, to our rendezvous with evil. Be rested, for the time will come soon when rest is out of the question.”
Much later, a voice woke her. “Mathena…shush. Wake up, Mathena. It’s Willow.”
“Willow, what is it? Are you ill?”
“No, I wanted you to know she has used the White yet again. Our Breanna is alive and well.”
“Thank you, Willow,” Mathena replied. “I shall sleep better now.” She lay back down against the hard ground, her heart less heavy knowing her daughter was still alive.
The next morning brought signs the Smoke River was widening. The forested area was left behind, and the banks of the waterway grew ever steeper. Before long, the Smoke met with the Iree, and the Spohn, and formed the Beltick Seaway, a very wide section of water upon which sailed many gaily colored ships with huge masts and exotic names. They needed a strong ferryboat with two fast sails, able to carry eight horses and riders. Eliandor knew of such a person, Pilar Arbuckle, whose ancient kin had been friends with the elves of Haven Pentara. The name Eliandor Stronghold Pentara had passed through many lines of men before reaching the ferryman, but he knew it well. Bowing at the knee, the oarsman gazed in awe, and removed his cap.
“Aye,” he said, “I’ve been told tales, but thought they were tall, not real. It’s my pleasure to know the truth, to see for myself the one my fathers remarked about. Lord Eliandor, my ship is yours.”
He quickly put them on his ferry, but refused payment, for what was better currency than helping the beautiful ladies aboard? Not one could be a day older than my young daughter, he thought as they sailed across the seaway.
Off to the east, the blackness of the sky spoke to turmoil in the roiling clouds, causing the councilor concern for those transports waiting on the shore. He spoke to young Pilar of what was coming, and suggested that the ship be brought in to harbor, where she would suffer the least amount of damage from water, wind, and fire from the sky.
The ferryman was smart, like his ancient grandfather had been, and listened to Eliandor’s wisdom. After the elven group departed, Pilar closed his ferrying business for the day and sailed his boat to a safe harbor. Later, after all was wrecked, and his fellows lay dead in the water, he and his ship remained unharmed. He fell to his knees, and gave thanks for safety and for the wisdom of his ancestors.
Departing the ship, the seven and Eliandor braced themselves for the storms ahead. Along the road, the bleak morning light would have daunted a less-capable crowd, but none of the eight on horseback were concerned over mere storms. The fires would come soon, they knew—plenty of
time to grow apprehensive. Several hundred yards down the road, they saw a carved sign directing their travel to Parth. It was unneeded, for the eastern sky was filled with swirling clouds spouting fire, and its message was clear: “This way are witches. Come if you dare.”
The riders girded their determination and galloped toward the hamlet. Down back trails they flew, avoiding the sharp eyes of the signal witches who were certainly watching. The light had passed, and night was upon them as the fire in the sky grew more terrible, yet the comrades rode on, finding faint animal trails that led them to the village center. Rough ground bounced them about as the tired horses found their way through overgrowth. For most of their journey, Miralda had spelled the horses, adding a lift to their hooves and legs, but now, at the end, the heavy animals and riders quickly felt the difference as the rocky ground of Parth came up to meet them.
At one point Eliandor pulled up, and motioned to the seven. “Look at the valley below. What do you see?”
Mara’s gift of vision let her see a long, dark building with secure outer walls, broken windows, and scattered shutters on the ground. Her senses picked up the odor of animals from the building.
“It is a slaughterhouse,” she said to the others, “and has recently been used as a holding area for pigs and cattle.”
“What better way to hide from a witch than under her nose?” Eliandor said, motioning for the others to change direction. Across the valley they moved quietly, carefully, eyes out for vole holes that would cripple the horses. To the left they saw the village center lit with bonfires, and tapers shooting flames into the already chaotic sky. Mara tried, but was unable to see around the hay-filled carts parked close to the village square.
Quickly, to the slaughterhouse—hurry now, before one of them senses us, the councilor sent to their thoughts. He remembered for a moment his conversation with Mathena. Traveling a short path to those who were familiar required little expertise, and it was easy for him to enter their thoughts. However, roaming the dark halls of space and distance in search of someone lost put a traveler’s footing on a dangerous path. He was grateful Mathena had been sent back before she became lost.
She led them now, her long black braid flowing as the sharp wind cut her face. She flew toward the long building with the other six and Eliandor trailing just behind. Within Mathena’s heart her greatest desire was to see her only child, but in the quiet part that seethed against injustice, the lonely mother ached to bring Yahmara to her knees.
Light from the fires filled the witches’ eyes as they danced round and round the largest of the bonfires with voices raised in praise of their father, the Spectre. At least a hundred and fifty had arrived for the celebration. It was to be a rare sight, an opportunity to see a young girl chosen by Yahmara enter the coven. The girl was human, and would pull out her own heart, just as her mentor once did. Screeches could be heard on the wind as the witches’ voices blended with the sounds of thunder and the roar of fire in the sky. Each of the faithful waited for their leader to bring the girl and challenge any who interfered.
The warriors gathered in the slaughterhouse, the eight of them weary, but charged by the purity of their deed. Eliandor had seen such obscenity before in his long life: the vagaries of dancing by black-clad worshippers whose mindless obeisance knew only cruelty. The coven sickened him as the members cried out to an evil entity for salvation from the world and its woes. He knew some witches who believed they were born without hearts. They were lost in a world of make-believe, for theirs beat as well as others. They had fooled themselves into a lifetime of denial, as though their bodies could survive without the most necessary component. He had been through such farces more than once. Each witch, whom he had shot through with an arrow, had believed there was no such organ within her chest until it bled and slowed. The atrocities always screeched and lamented, cursing the ground and the world, but when the hearts stopped, their bodies also stopped.
Yahmara, on the other hand, was a real made-witch, for her elven blood had found another path of circulation after she removed her own heart. She became stronger, fiercer, and totally without feeling, with only one objective: to destroy mankind and elfkind. It would kill the child if she tried to remove her heart, and Yahmara knew it. Eliandor knew it well also, for such a black deed had happened before. Yahmara’s human friend had been young, and, wanting to be like the other, had followed the same path. She cut her chest open and tried to pull out her own heart, but blood pumped from the open wound and she died. The girl being from the family of man had no elven alternatives to life. Eliandor blamed Yahmara for the loss of the child. And as for the witch, if at that time she had any good feelings left, they died along with her only friend.
Darkness covered them well, for with the exception of the Supreme Witch, none were listening for arrivals. Only she heard the clip-clop of the horses; only she knew those who came to take away her worldly kingdom. But they would soon lose their long lives. Yahmara took the child in hand. The underground room where they waited had been Elida’s prison for over half a year. The witch knew the little girl was weary and heartbroken, convinced none loved her anymore. They had seen to it, for each time Elida felt hopeful, they broke her again. The last time was when Breanna came and left quickly. Yahmara had been watching the child and seen her face as it moved with strange words.
“Aha, a traveler of the void has been here. Perhaps Mara has found the way to enter the netherworld and leave again, to see through time.” She showed her the scar on her chest, the place where she had removed the useless organ.
“You shall become as I, human girl. We will celebrate. You and I shall worship the divine Spectre until eternity.”
Elida was too tired and uncaring to argue. She quietly listened to the words from the Bad One’s lips, not believing them, but accepting them as more w—— words. She was, after all, a child, and children were not only a nuisance, but were put upon the world to be the servants of older, wiser ones. There was a part of her that still believed in Bree, but she kept it hidden so far down the Bad One could never see it. What she had said to her friend about hating her was not true. She could never hate Bree, for in Elida’s world, where softness lived, it was easy to fasten loyalty upon a hero and never let go. In the child’s mind, she knew Yahmara wanted that loyalty, but it was already promised and delivered.
26.
Riding in the cart soothed Breanna’s worries, for the beasts pulling in trace needed her attention ever so often. The road was a thirsty place for horses, and twice on the trip they had stopped to water them. She took the time to speak to the animals encouragingly, explaining reasons for hurrying, but even the equine kingdom knew Yahmara, for when Breanna mentioned her name, the poor draft horses neighed in fear.
Rand rode quietly beside her, his mind in turmoil over what he felt for her. She was young and from a different race of people. She deserved better than him. He pulled away from her, but each time she smiled, it tugged at his heart, and he found himself leaning toward her once more. The fear of the battle to come surprised him; it was for the girl, not for himself, that sweat broke out on his forehead. What if she took an arrow in the heart? Not once on the long trip had he seen her commit a selfish act, and yet she might die in her race to save another. The young captain was perplexed as he had never been before.
Breanna, on the other hand, was happy as she could be under the circumstances. She realized the possibility she might lose her life during the dark hours of night, but her happiness was in the moment, being next to Rand and holding the hope they would rescue Elida.
There was much to be frightened of in the night to come. The brave men who traveled with them put on stern faces, yet they stroked their chins with fear when caught off guard. A fair fight of human proportion was not out of the question for those men, but a fight against evil was new, and as all untried challenges, there was a concern for the unknown. Breanna remembered her prayers as a small child, and tried them again, speaking to her creator, asking f
or help against the darkness on the horizon.
Across the countryside toward the east, the clouds had built to tremendous sizes, some spinning in circles that would tear the cart from one end to the other if it were caught in the middle. A fiery line ran the length of the spinners, lighting up the heavens in reds and yellows as they spun upward, out of sight. The fight was there, where the clouds gathered, in the vortex above Parth. There Yahmara and her mindless followers waited for a sign from the evil one to begin a horrible ceremony in which someone must die to satisfy them. Breanna knew little of witches and witch-making, but she knew human and elven nature. Yahmara was both, and she, Breanna, was of the same two races. The real enemy was the Spectre, who would turn his back on Yahmara in a moment’s notice if convinced the witch was disloyal. Breanna hoped to remember that when the time came.
The cart and horses were getting closer, for one of the drivers knew a back road into the hamlet of Parth. Breanna removed the spell from the animals as they made ready to travel quietly into the village. She used her night eyes to see what lay ahead. Looking the village over, she saw a large building, set aside from the rest without light from taper or open fire.
They eased into the town center and saw bonfires burning, and women dancing feverishly around and around, spitting their own imitations of fire into the air around them. The heavens roiled with cloud spinners and fire spouts, which set the forests and houses in the village aflame. The noise of the thunder was overwhelming, at times drowning the screeches from the witches, adding to the roars of the blowing wind. The sounds were both loud and tearing, as though the world itself was ripping apart.
The building was a farmer’s barn, and its walls were piled high with hay. Breanna was pleased, for the horses would be happy there. They would leave the doors open, for the chance of fire spreading was too great to keep the animals locked away.
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