Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  As the darkness around him grew complete, he lost sense of his surroundings. Was he traveling up or down now? The only way he could measure was by the growing pressure on his ears. His chest, too, felt the water’s weight, as if the pool were squeezing the air from his lungs.

  Thorn had been right. It was death to enter these swirling waters. But death was a small price to pay for a chance to reach Elena, if only to hold her one last time.

  Er’ril . . . help me . . .

  At first, he was sure it was his strained mind that had voiced this plea. But his heart could not deny the hope. Elena!

  From out of the darkness, a glimmer of silver caught his eye from far below, glowing with its own light. The current swirled him down toward the feeble light.

  As he neared, he saw the shine came from a rod of silver—clutched in the grip of a dark figure that spun in an eddy of the current, limp and lifeless.

  Er’ril kicked his way over to Elena. In the glow, he saw her eyes open but sightless. He swam up to her, pulling her into his arms. At least he would have his last wish before he died. He clutched her hard to his strained chest.

  Then he felt it—the beat of her heart against him.

  She lived!

  He struggled for some way to free them both. He searched, but darkness lay all around them. They were but a mote of light in a raging current. Elena . . .

  There was no answer this time.

  He stared down into her face, then her hands. They shone ruby in the light from the silver object. He saw that it was not a rod, but a sword, shining with its own inner light. Elena’s fingers clung instinctively to the magickal blade.

  His lungs on fire, Er’ril freed a hand and grabbed the hilt of the sword. If he could not awake Elena, perhaps he could rouse the wit’ch!

  He stared into Elena’s slack face once more. Forgive me!

  He drew the sword from between her palms as if unsheathing it from a scabbard. The fine blade sliced through her skin, and a bloom of blood flowed free.

  Elena jerked as if struck by lightning.

  In his head, a wailing exploded, a chorus of wild lusts and madness.

  Er’ril resisted the urge to kick away. Instead he clung to the woman he loved, his arms and legs wrapping tight around her. Blood flowed between them, a mix of ice and fire, while the screams of wild magick howled all around them.

  Er’ril squeezed his eyes tight. Elena, come back to me . . .

  Meric stood with the others by the bank of the pool.

  Nee’lahn spoke at his shoulder. “The waters . . .” She pointed an arm. “They no longer churn.”

  Meric realized she was right. The swirl of the waters had ceased. The surface of the pool was flat and featureless.

  “The nexus has ended,” Greshym said. “The world has cut off this channel to its heart.”

  As if hearing him, a strange howl rose from the pool like a mist. The cry sailed off into the night and away. No one spoke for a long breath.

  Then the elder’root lunged up from where he had been kneeling, lost in his grief. He faced the group now, his furious eyes taking them all in. “You all did this! You and that demoness!”

  Thorn tried to put a restraining hand on her father, but he shook her away.

  Meric met his challenge without flinching. “This is not our doing.”

  Thorn stepped between them, her stance pure wolf. “What has happened here?”

  Meric and the elder’root stared each other down.

  Her father answered, froth on his lips. “The Spirit Root is dead! Slain by their demoness!”

  “She would not have done that,” Meric spat back. “Not even to save her own life!” As much as it trembled his heart, he knew his words to be true.

  Thorn must have sensed his passion and held up her arms, urging restraint. “Father, we should give this some thought before—”

  A gust of wind swirled into the sacred valley. Leaves tumbled from above, a fall of copper as thick as a heavy snowfall.

  The elder’root glanced up. The leaves fell from the branches overhead, cascading down, leaving limbs bare. The pool became covered with a raft of fallen leaves. “There is your answer, Daughter! The Spirit has left us, destroyed by these heathens!”

  A great cry rose from the valley’s edges. All the ancient trees were shedding their leaves, as if laying their own death shrouds at their rooted feet.

  “All the Old Ones,” Nee’lahn murmured, “all dying.”

  “Step aside, Daughter,” the elder’root said with thick menace. “Before our people die, I will see the blood of these desecrators darken our soil.”

  The elder’root hunched where he stood; then with a roar, he burst outward, his cloak shredding as the beast inside him was unleashed. Black fur sprouted; a muzzle of fanged teeth pushed forth with a roar. Hands became heavy paws of razored claws. The huge bear rose on muscled legs and bellowed its rage.

  Thorn backed from the display. “Father! No!” She barely dodged a heavy swat meant to knock her aside.

  Meric stepped past her “Go, girl. This isn’t your fight.” He crouched, ready to meet the challenge.

  With a howl, the bear leaped at Meric, claws extended to rip flesh from bone. But before the bulk could hit, a wall of brambles shot from the soil, coming between them. The bear hit the thorny barrier while Meric stumbled back.

  “Over here!” Nee’lahn called.

  Meric risked a glance backward. The others were gathered in a cluster, including the trappers. Nee’lahn stood before them, straight-backed, arms extended, fingers splayed.

  “With the nexus gone,” Nee’lahn explained, “we have our magick again! Can’t you feel it?”

  Meric, distracted by the elder’root, had failed to notice that the weight had lifted from his shoulders. He reached to his magick, and his silver hair flared around his shoulders with a nimbus of energy. He was whole again!

  Meric backed to join the others as the elder’root tore at the tangle of brambles and briars, bleeding from the thousand thorns. Nee’lahn spread her arms, and the bramble barrier swept out in both directions, circling the party within its thorny ramparts. She continued to feed her power, calling upon her magicks, thickening the bulwarks, growing it taller.

  Beyond her defenses, the shape-shifters attacked, taking their lead from the elder’root. All around the valley, si’lura flowed toward the fighting, enraged by the sight of the ancient trees dead and bare. The crunch of foot, paw, and hoof through the fall of leaves sounded everywhere, like the crackle of a deadly forest fire.

  Above their heads, shape-shifters took to wing, diving toward the island in the center of the bramble sea. But Meric cast out his own magick and fouled their aim with sudden gusts and impossible currents.

  Closer at hand, others tried to burrow through or under the barrier, but Nee’lahn blocked them at every turn.

  Slowly turning, back to back, as in some deadly dance, Nee’lahn and Meric fought to hold their ramparts.

  In the middle of the fray, Joach huddled with Harlequin, staring toward the great dead tree, barren of leaves. “Elena . . .”

  Beyond the barrier, the pool was covered with copper leaves. Nothing stirred. There was no sign of Er’ril or Elena.

  Over the past moons, Joach had experienced all manners of despair—the loss of his youth, the death of Kesla—but at this moment he knew he’d barely touched the true depths of hopelessness. It was a well without bottom, and he was falling ever deeper. The screams and howls around him muted, colors dulled, bled of their substance.

  A sharp cry twitched his eyes to the left. He spotted Bryanna being tugged toward a hole that had opened in the ground. Her bare foot was gripped in the vice of armored pincers.

  Her brother, Gunther, leaped to her aid, silent in his purpose and determination. He grabbed the pincers with his fingers, then bulled his shoulders and pried them apart. Something mewled down in the hole.

  Bryanna tugged her foot free and rolled away.

  “Sta
nd back!” Nee’lahn called from across the way.

  Gunther let go of the pincers and hurtled away. At his heels, a tangle of briars swelled from the ground and clogged the hole, growing thicker with every heartbeat.

  “There are too many!” Nee’lahn cried out. “They’re coming from all sides.”

  As if to demonstrate this point, something large dove past Joach’s shoulder, snatched up one of the trappers, and winged past the brambles. Joach followed its flight. The plucked man struggled, his shoulder impaled by the claws of the giant roc. His weight was too much for the shape-shifter to hold aloft. The trapper was shaken lose. He fell hard to the ground outside the barriers.

  “Dimont!” Gunther cried.

  But it was already too late—the trapper was set upon by a score of beasts: wolves, sniffers, cats.

  “We can’t hold out much longer,” Meric called.

  Joach shook his head. What did it matter? What were they holding out for?

  A familiar roar sounded behind him. Joach turned to see a bear rise up on its hind legs. Behind the elder’root, the slope of the valley was covered with si’lura of every shape and size, beasts of every ilk. Though Joach could not communicate in the mindspeak of the shape-shifters, he still read their leader’s black thoughts: He meant to slay them all.

  “Here they come!” Meric shouted.

  With a howl of blood lust, the elder’root led his people in a final charge. But before they could crash against the thorny barrier, a crack of thunder split the valley. The clap of noise froze everyone in place, stopping the charge in midstride. In the center of the leaf-strewn pool, the trunk of the great Spirit Tree had split from crown to root, its two halves tilting apart but not toppling. A heavy mist rose from the shattered wood.

  A chill spread outward, as if true winter had come to the summer valley. “Hoarfrost,” Nee’lahn whispered, arms lowering slightly.

  Past the briars, the shape-shifters began to stir. Growls and hissing rose anew, but more subdued, unsure.

  Only Thorn, still wearing her womanly form, stepped closer to the pond and tree. “What does this mean?” she asked. Her words were not shouted, but the sudden quiet made her easy to hear. She faced both sides of the warring field, as if unclear who to blame, who might have answers.

  But the answer came from behind her. The leaves floating atop the pond swirled in a tight eddy; then a fist of ice blasted forth, carried high into the air atop a pillar of frozen water.

  Thorn danced away as the pond sloshed over the banks, but the water never reached the mud. In midsplash, the waters froze into crystalline sculptures. The entire pond froze over, spreading outward from the pillar. Then the freeze blew outward, turning the mud solid and fissuring its banks, while mists of hoarfrost blanketed the center of the valley. Where these ice fogs brushed the bramble ramparts, leaves curled black and stalks shattered from the cold.

  All eyes focused on the fist of ice atop the pillar. Through the crystalline surface, a darker shape was evident.

  “Elena . . .” Joach whispered.

  As if hearing him, the fist suddenly blew outward in a hail of ripping shards. As the blast cleared, Joach saw Elena and Er’ril. Elena crouched, her left hand planted atop the pillar—the hand of coldfire now pale and empty.

  She held her other hand out toward those gathered below. Wit’ch fire danced around her ruby fingers.

  Er’ril rose groggily behind her.

  Joach stood. “Elena!”

  Still dazed, her lungs aching, Elena tried to make sense of the scene before her. The moonlit valley was filled with shape-shifters. Close at hand, a ring of briars surrounded her friends. She heard Joach call out, but his voice sounded strangely distant.

  Her ears still rang with the pressure of the depths. Her breathing was ragged and loud in her ears. Further, the magick spent in driving her to the surface of the pond had left her feeling hollow and empty.

  Moments ago, near to drowning, she had been dragged from oblivion by a chorus of wild magicks surging in her blood. When she found Er’ril clinging to her, she had reacted out of blind instinct, more for Er’ril’s safety than her own. Touching her coldfire, she fed her magick into the waters below her, propelling them both to the surface atop a column of ice. Once out of the pond, a bit of her fiery magick had freed them from the icy cocoon.

  Now released, Elena reined in her wit’ch fire, extinguishing the dancing flames and driving back the call of wild magicks.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Er’ril. Her words were weak and hoarse.

  He crawled to his knees. “I am . . . now that you’re safe.” She drew strength from the iron in his voice.

  Below, Thorn stepped nearer. “What happened?” the huntress called up to them.

  Elena shifted atop her pillar, standing with care on the slick summit. On his knees, Er’ril helped hold her steady as her legs trembled from the cold. Icicles still hung from her clothes and hair. A violent shiver threatened to topple her from her perch.

  “Elena,” Thorn repeated, “what happened?”

  A bear padded up to the huntress. Elena’s eyes widened at the sight of the huge beast. Then with a shake, the bearish features faded to something that was a blend of animal and man: Thorn’s father, the elder’root of the si’lura.

  A growl of challenge arose from his throat before words slowly formed. “You’ve killed us all!”

  Elena had trouble making sense of these words. She searched for some way down from the pillar. Already the ice was melting in rivulets and runnels.

  “Be careful,” Er’ril mumbled behind her, teeth chattering. “The si’lura think you destroyed their Spirit Tree.”

  Elena stopped her search and stared at the pair gathered below. She fought her numb tongue. “Destroy the Root? I would never—”

  “Lies!” the elder’root shouted. An echo of growls accompanied him from the others.

  Thorn stepped farther forward, as if distancing herself from both her father and his accusation. “Then tell us what happened.”

  Elena glanced back to the ice-blasted tree, its trunk split in half. She stared out at the bare trees framing the valley. They were all dead. “ ‘The time of our guardianship is over . . .’ ” she mumbled, echoing the words of the Root.

  “What was that?” Thorn asked.

  Elena breathed deeply. “The Root spoke to me,” she said, shivering, struggling to make her voice firm. “It said that to protect these forests, you must abandon them.”

  “Never!” the elder’root exclaimed.

  Thorn held a palm toward her father, pleading patience. “Where are we to go?”

  “To seek the Twins.”

  Thorn gasped. “Fardale and Mogweed?”

  Elena nodded. A bit of warmth slowly returned to her limbs. “I believe that was what the Old One meant. I sensed a picture of the two brothers.”

  “These are lies!” the elder’root hissed.

  “Father,” Thorn argued, “you yourself said the Root communed with Elena. Would it have done so if she had meant it harm? The Root knows a person’s heart.”

  Her words seemed to shake her father. For a moment, the beastly features threatened to overwhelm the man. “The Root was sick . . . Perhaps it didn’t know a demon could wear such an innocent face.”

  “You saw the glow, Father. The Root has not shone with such brilliance in ages. It chose her for this message.”

  “To leave the forests and seek the cursed Twins?”

  Thorn shook her head. “The Root has always guided us. Shall we ignore its last message?”

  “How do we know this stranger speaks the truth to us?”

  Now it was Thorn’s turn to seem unsure. She faced Elena, her eyes pleading for some sign, some proof.

  Elena was unsure what to do. Er’ril leaned closer. “Perhaps you should show them this.” He half unsheathed a length of silver sword. Elena’s eyes widened as she recognized the talisman from the Root. “You were clutching it when I found you.”
/>   She nodded and took the weapon in her left hand, pulling it free. She recalled the plea of the Root: Lead my people with this sign . . .

  Elena fought the shaking of her limbs. She cleared her aching throat and raised her voice for all to hear. “I am charged to lead you from your forests! So the Root has burdened me! As proof, it has given me this!”

  She lifted the sword for all to see. Its razored edges were so sharp that it was hard to define the weapon’s boundaries. Touched by moonlight, the blade ignited with its own inner shine, blazing bright into the night. Gasps arose throughout the valley.

  “It cannot be!” the elder’root exclaimed. He dropped to his knees, while the other shape-shifters milled in confusion.

  “Father, what’s wrong?”

  The elder’root reached blindly toward his daughter. “It is something shared only between the great Root and its chosen. A secret promise sworn by the elder’root of each generation.”

  “What promise?”

  His voice was a whisper, but Elena heard him. “To follow the one foretold in ages past, she who would bear the Sword of the Rose again.”

  Thorn stared up at Elena and the shining blade. “The Sword of the Rose?”

  Elena knew what she held aloft; she had recognized the sword from the moment it was laid in her hands. Back at A’loa Glen, Elena had read every text, rumor, and tale about her ancestor, Sisa’kofa, and she recognized the weapon borne by the ancient wit’ch. It had been described countless times and called by many names: Demon Blade, Spirit Stealer, Wit’ch Sword. By whatever name, the length of shining silver with its rose-carved hilt could not be mistaken.

  She raised the sword forged of elemental silver, the same metal that channeled the Land’s energy. Even now, she felt the power vibrating within the blade’s length.

  “The Root is gone,” she intoned. “It has returned to the world’s heart to offer its strength against a greater threat.”

  “What are we to do without it?” Thorn asked. “It is our spiritual center. With it gone, we will die.”

  Elena stared out at the gathered army. “But for now, you live! The fate of your people is not yet decided. I am to lead you beyond these forests, to the Twins. The brothers hold the key to your future.”