Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Suddenly hands grabbed her, dragging her up and away. Words formed in her mind: You must not go there!

  Relief surged. It was Cho, returned.

  Then she was flung with the force of a thousand suns.

  Pain ripped through her.

  You must never go there!

  Tyrus reached the door to the courtyard as the thunderclap hit. The explosion knocked him to his knees. The entire castle shook. The thick ironwood door before him shuddered and cracked.

  “Sweet Mother!” he gasped. Had lightning struck just beyond the threshold? Shaking his head against the echoing boom, he grabbed for the iron latch to the door, then cried out in pain and surprise. His hand had instantly frozen to the metal, so cold it burned. As he yanked back, he left a good swatch of skin on the handle.

  Xin was a step behind him. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I think I got that,” Tyrus snapped. He wrapped his ice-burned hand in his cloak and snatched at the latch again, but the door failed to budge. Growling his frustration, he kicked out, popping it open through a layer of ice.

  The gardens of the Grand Courtyard beyond looked untouched. There was no sign of lightning strike or any storm in the sky. As Tyrus swung about, looking, the edge of his cloak brushed a rose. The pale pink flower crumpled to shards of crystalline petal.

  Tyrus stared at the ruin in shock.

  Xin reached to the branch of a flowering dogwood. It snapped off at his touch to tinkle and shatter upon the gravel path.

  “All frozen,” Tyrus said. Under the light of the full moon, the gardens shone with an unnatural gleam. Every surface was rimed with ice, dead.

  Movement drew his eye. A small figure crawled from under the shelter of the tree in the center of the gardens—the boy Rodricko. The lad reached to a purple flower of the koa’kona sapling, almost soothing it. Its petals remained soft, unfrozen. The tree suffused a warm radiance, a glow from its hundreds of open blooms. Except for the boy, the tree was the only living thing here.

  Xin spoke behind him. “Where are the others?”

  Tyrus shook his head. He had no answer.

  The gardens were empty.

  Kast was the first to react to the sudden boom that rocked the castle. As his captors froze in an instant of confusion, Kast lunged and broke the grips that held him. Brother Ryn, still holding the fistful of gelatinous tentacles, stumbled backward. With a roar, Kast grabbed the edge of the library table and heaved upward, using all the strength of his pain and fury. The heavy oaken desk flew high, knocking aside the gathered brethren and striking the hearth. Coals scattered, and the two pieces of ebon’stone shell clattered across the floor.

  Fingers clutched at his sleeve. He swung around. It was Sy-wen. “Kast . . . !” She sounded for the moment like herself.

  “Sy-wen?”

  She stared up at him, frightened.

  Kast smashed a fist into her face. Her nose broke under his knuckles; he snatched her wrist and yanked her over his shoulder.

  “Grab him!” Brother Ryn screamed.

  Kast spun away with the balance of decades atop a rolling deck. Sy-wen’s small form was no burden; he raced toward the library doors. There were too many here to fight, especially with their demon-spawn strength. He would gather other defenders, then return to scour the corruption from these halls.

  Reaching the doors, Kast had a sudden thought and shoved with his shoulder at the nearest row of stacked shelves. The tall wooden shelf teetered. It was heavy with texts and scrolled parchments.

  His pursuers were almost upon him.

  Growling with fury, Kast struck again with his shoulder. Sy-wen groaned, but this time the shelf pitched over with a crack, knocking into the next row, sending its neighbor toppling. Row after row collapsed. Dust billowed, and books and scrolls flew.

  Kast bounded out the door, but fled no more than four steps. He dumped Sy-wen to the floor, then grabbed a torch, and a lamp from a table.

  Sweeping back to the door, Kast flung the lantern at the first pursuer, striking him in the chest. Glass burst and sprayed the man’s white robe with oil. Kast shoved him stiff-armed back into the library and struck the torch to the man’s chest. “Sorry, my brother.”

  The oily robe took the flame in a fiery rush. Kast kicked the screaming man into the toppled stacks of dusty tomes and worm-eaten wood. The ancient tinder was ripe for the flame. The fire quickened with a roar. Kast danced back, flinging his torch deeper into the pile of felled books, then spun back to the door and out.

  He slammed the thick door and secured it by imbedding his dagger in the jamb, then tied the latch down with his belt. As he worked, he heard screams and cries from inside. The door shook from someone’s pounding. There was no other exit from the library, except up a spiral staircase to the observatory, and a deadly fall awaited anyone who attempted to escape in that direction.

  Kast turned from the screams. He would have to go for help to make sure this nest was fully burned out. Hurrying, Kast returned to where he had left Sy-wen.

  With the hall torch gone to set the fire, the corridor was dark, the shadows thick—and the floor was empty.

  He stared down the dark passage. “Sy-wen . . .”

  Greshym tried to pierce the dark Void around him. Where was he? For a moment, he spotted a flare of crackling light far away in the blackness, a flash of azure lightning. Then it was gone.

  He fed magick into his protection spell, draining the last of the dark energy from his bone staff. Despair settled to the marrow of his bones. Behind him, Rukh continued to whine. Did the creature sense its own doom?

  Greshym lowered his staff, resigned. At least he had tasted the wine of youth again, even if only a sip.

  Then like a bubble popping, the Void vanished, and the world returned around them. The sudden appearance of light and substance knocked Greshym to his knees. Rukh buried his snouted face in the mud, mewling. Greshym nudged him with an elbow. “Quiet, dog!” But his command held no venom. The sight before him had stolen his voice.

  The pair still stood on the same spit of land, but Moon Lake was now empty. The lands around were a watery ruin. A leafless, toppled forest spread as far as the eye could see. A clear moon hung over the devastation, blind and cold to the wreckage.

  All around, the night remained silent, hushed. No birdsong, no voices, no cries. Greshym strained for sounds of any other survivors. Nothing.

  He searched around—then a glimmer of light caught his eye, and he turned back to the center of the lake. Pools of water still stood in deeper pockets of the sandy bottoms; he thought at first he merely saw moonlight reflecting off a puddle. But the shaft of brilliance grew, like a ray of sunshine piercing between two dark clouds—a spear of moonshine from sky to lake.

  “What is that?” he murmured, shielding his eyes against the brilliance. He sensed the flow of magick pulsing in the heart of the brilliant shaft. He lifted his hollow staff. If he could tap into that energy . . .

  He took a step toward the lake. Before he could take a second, the spear of light exploded, shattering out in a storm of shards. The blast sent pieces stabbing into the sandy mud. Ice?

  He touched the tip of his staff to it. Moonlit energy answered him—these were frozen pieces of the lake. He drew the small bit of magick into the marrow of his weapon, then stared out at the thousands of chunks of ice and smiled. It wasn’t as much magick as he had hoped, but it would do for now.

  As he gazed out across the lake, he spotted figures rising from the sand and mud in the center of the empty lake. He took a step back warily. Small sounds of shock and disorientation echoed to him.

  “Where are we?” a voice asked weakly.

  “I don’t know.” This was spoken with more strength. It also sounded familiar.

  “Impossible,” Greshym whispered, ducking low. He used the bit of magick in the staff to heighten his vision and sharpen his ears. The figures covered in muck and filth milled together in the center of the lake. Greshym bit back a snarl. It cou
ld not be.

  Er’ril waded through the muck to Elena’s side. With each step, the sandy mud threatened to pull the boots from his feet. “I don’t know where we are, but from the stars, it must be far from A’loa Glen.”

  Elena lifted her face. She had been studying her pale white hands. The Rose was gone from both. “Yes, but where?”

  “Somewhere in the forests of the Western Reaches,” Nee’lahn answered.

  Er’ril glanced over to the small nyphai woman. Meric and one of the castle guards were helping her stand.

  Harlequin Quail remained seated in the muck, his expression exasperated. “The Western Reaches . . . great.”

  “Are you sure?” Joach asked, as the other guard pulled him to his feet. He leaned on his staff, grimacing at the ankle-deep mud.

  Nee’lahn stared out at the ruined forest. “I can hear treesong beyond the horizon.” Her fingers absently cleaned the mud from her lute. “But the forest here is dead.”

  “We can see that,” Meric said.

  “No, you don’t understand.” Nee’lahn’s voice cracked. “It’s not just dead—it’s lifeless. The Land itself is empty.” She turned to the others. “Can’t you feel it?”

  Er’ril searched the ruined landscape. It did indeed seem unnaturally quiet.

  “Even dead trees are a part of the cycle of root and loam,” Nee’lahn continued, “giving their decaying energy and magick back to the Land. But this soil is empty. Whatever blasted this region tore the elemental magick from tree and Land alike.”

  No one spoke. The dark and silent forest took on a more ominous shading.

  Harlequin finally broke the quiet, pulling out of the sucking mud with a sour look. “But how did we get here and can we get back?”

  “It was Cho,” Elena answered. “I sensed her when the magick wave struck the courtyard. We must have been carried along the bridge—from one spell to another.”

  “What do you mean?” Er’ril asked.

  “Cho saw two opposing forces upon this night’s full moon.” She pointed to where the orb now descended toward the horizon. “A spirit bridge heading up and some force drawing energy down . . . down to here, I’d imagine.” She stared across the dark landscape. “The explosion sucked us along the backwash—up the trace of the spirit bridge and down to this spot, like so much flotsam in a raging current.”

  “Not all of us.” Meric’s voice lowered fearfully as he turned to Nee’lahn. “Rodricko . . .”

  Nee’lahn shook her head. “Fear not. I was watching him when we were struck by the wave. The limbs of his tree sheltered him. He had finished his song . . . joined with the tree. As the tree is rooted to the courtyard, so was the boy.”

  “And he is safe?” Meric asked with clear relief.

  Nee’lahn’s face tightened. “I must believe so. I’m sure I would sense otherwise.”

  Er’ril sighed. “We’d best find shelter, get a fire going, and get out of these damp clothes. Then we’ll find a way back home.”

  Joach stood shivering nearby. “A fire sounds good. Once I’m rested, I can try to reach Xin through my black pearl.” He patted his pockets.

  Er’ril nodded. He knew Joach and the zo’ol shaman had formed a bond—an exchange of gifts and names. This bond allowed them to communicate over long distances. But could it reach this far? That question would wait until morning. Right now, a secure camp was the priority.

  They set off toward the forest, working around muddy pools. Er’ril sent the guards forward to scout and aid survivors. He took inventory of the party’s weapons. He had his own sword, as did Meric. Joach had his staff, but did he have the strength to wield it?

  Er’ril frowned and slogged up to Elena. She had been talking to Harlequin in whispers. The small man spoke with waving hands and jingling bells. Whatever tale he told brought a smile to Elena’s lips. For that small blessing, Er’ril could have hugged the strange fellow.

  Instead he motioned Elena aside.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He took her hands between his own, and found his breath catch in his throat. It was seldom that Elena was not gifted with the magick of the Rose, so it was rare to hold her hands without gloves. He had forgotten the softness of her skin, the warmth of her palm.

  “Er’ril . . . ?”

  He met her gaze. “We don’t know what dangers await us here. You’d best renew your coldfire while the moon is still risen.”

  Elena seemed to sag, her smile fading. “Of course.” She slipped her hand from his and stepped to the side.

  He reached for her, then lowered his arm. There were some paths she walked that he couldn’t follow.

  Elena raised her left hand to the moon. Her eyes closed slightly as she willed the magick again to her. Er’ril stared only at her face. The moonlight cast her into a figure of silver and darkness. After a moment, he saw her lips tighten and her brows furrow. She lowered her arm, then turned to him, holding out her hand, still pale and white.

  “It . . . it didn’t work.”

  Er’ril went to her. “Are you sure? Did you do it right?”

  She cast him an exasperated look, then stared up at the sky.

  “What could’ve gone wrong?”

  Elena leaned into him. “I don’t know. Maybe the moon’s magick has been too sorely abused this night. Or maybe it’s because Cho has vanished. It’s her power that channels into me.”

  “We’ll figure this out,” Er’ril assured her. “If it’s the moon, then we’ll know by sunrise. You can renew your wit’ch fire with the dawn.”

  Elena’s voice grew hushed. “And if it fails then, too?”

  Er’ril heard the fear in her voice, but also a small thread of relief. He held her tighter. Like the softness of her skin, he sometimes forgot the heavy burden on her shoulders. He simply wrapped his warmth around her. He was always her liegeman, but in moments like this, he could be her husband, too.

  They stood in each other’s arms long enough to be left behind by the others in their party.

  Finally, Elena reached under his cloak, slipping the Blood Diary from the inner pocket of his garment. She ran her pale fingers over the cover. The gilt rose still bore a slight glow of moonshine. She took a shuddering breath. “If it’s not the moon, then we must search for Cho. We can’t win this war without her power.”

  Er’ril only nodded.

  Elena opened the book. As she stared into the pages, a small cry escaped her. She held out the Diary, and Er’ril saw that once again, the pages opened into a dark world streaked with crimson and azure gases and stars clustered too close together.

  The Void had returned.

  Elena searched expectantly around her. There was no flash or swirl of light. As they waited, a small frown formed on her lips. She rattled the book slightly, as if to shake the spirits loose from the pages.

  She turned to Er’ril, still frowning. “Where is Cho?”

  Greshym crouched at the edge of Moon Lake, eyes and ears sharp on those hiking across the marshy grounds. He had heard all. So the wit’ch has lost her powers? His mouth twitched with a grin. Shorkan and the Master of Blackhall might forgive his past slights if he handed them the wit’ch. Still, there was much risk. He had but the smallest magick at his command.

  Greshym focused on the bent-backed figure hobbling with the aid of the elv’in prince and the nyphai lass. Joach . . . That boy reeked of magick, as did the familiar staff he leaned upon.

  “If I could regain what was once mine . . . ,” he whispered, not entirely sure right now if he meant the length of petrified wood or the boy himself. There was much to ponder, but some initial maneuvering needed to be made quickly. He dared not lose this chance.

  He leaned to his side and gave Rukh a few stern commands. The stump gnome groveled, then backed off into the deadfall and vanished. Then Greshym turned his attention back upon the group, carefully planning his next move. With his concentration so focused, he failed to notice the one who spied upon him and approached so silently.<
br />
  As Greshym crouched, all the hairs on his arms and neck suddenly stood on end. He swung around as light burst behind him, a brilliant torch in the night, illuminating his hiding spot for all to see from leagues away.

  He threw an arm up against the glare, crying out.

  The flare of brilliance formed the figure of a woman, her face shining with icy rage: the Lady of the Lake.

  Her voice boomed and echoed, as deafening as her light was bright. “You are found! You will be judged!”

  Greshym cringed, lifting his drained staff. He knew it was too feeble a weapon against the one he faced. Strange fires burned in those empty eyes.

  Confirmation came from the wit’ch’s call in the distance. “Cho!”

  Book Two

  HOMECOMING

  5

  Tol’chuk crouched in the rain like a boulder in the storm, water sluicing over his craggy features. He perched on a granite outcropping, one that gave him a wide view of the valley below and the rising highlands beyond, misted by heavy clouds and sheets of rain. Dawn was breaking, but it was hard to say where night ended and day began: for the past three days, they had seen no sign of moon or sun, just slate-gray skies and feeble glows.

  “Such a damp land,” a voice said behind him.

  He did not have to turn to know Magnam; the d’warf’s droll demeanor never changed.

  “It be the summer wet season here,” Tol’chuk said. “Come midsummer these lands finally dry for a spell, until the winter storms begin.”

  “Sounds delightful. If I had d’warflings and a nattering wife, I’d bring them here to holiday.”

  “You could’ve gone with Wennar and the other d’warves.”

  Magnam made a rude noise and pulled a pipe from his pocket, waving it dismissively. “I’m no warrior. Camp cook, that’s me. I figured a flight to see these homelands of yours was a better idea.” Magnam scrambled up the slick rock and stared out at the rain-shrouded highlands. “Yep, some homeland you og’res have.”

  Tol’chuk glanced over. “At least there be no fireweeds growing every five steps, and no sulfurous pits,” he said, referring to the d’warf lands in Gul’gotha, a blasted and festering place. But when he saw the wounded look on Magnam’s face, he regretted his bitter words.