Then from the heart of the stone, a droplet of darkness appeared. It rose toward them, tangled in a cloud of silver strands. Tol’chuk backed toward Er’ril and Elena. “The Wit’ch of the Spirit Stone.”
Readying herself, Elena gave Er’ril’s hand a final squeeze. Then she stood and stepped forward.
From the Gate, a dark figure of carved ebony rose like a swimmer from the depths of a silver sea. The silver strands wafted apart, moving to currents unseen. The figure floated free, stepping out of the Gate and hovering at its threshold.
It was a woman, cloaked only in a cloud of silvery strands. Elena saw that these filaments were the figure’s own tresses, floating in wisps around her face, sweeping over her shoulders and about her form, flowing all the way back to the heart of the Spirit Stone.
In turn, the energy of the crystal swept out in bright flares of magick along these strands and sparked over her dark skin, defining her shape, as if continually sculpting her out of the darkness of the Gate’s well.
But Elena barely noted any of this. Her eyes were fixed on the woman’s face, smiling down upon her. It was her own face! Maybe a bit older. Only the eyes were truly someone else’s, ripe with ancient knowledge and magick.
“Sisa’kofa,” she greeted her.
The woman nodded. “Elena . . . at long last.” Her voice seemed slightly out of time with the movement of her lips.
Elena was too stunned to speak, but the figure smiled so warmly that her frozen tongue melted. “I . . . I have so many questions.”
“So do we all in life,” Sisa’kofa answered, “but I’m afraid I can only offer the guidance left to me by my predecessor. I am only the shadow of the one you name Sisa’kofa, bound to the stone to pass on one last message. What I’ve learned during my guardianship here, I’ve already told the seed of Ly’chuk.”
Elena nodded. Tol’chuk had already related the history of the Dark Lord, of his ancestor’s betrayal that had started in this very room and earned him the name Oathbreaker. “What else must I know?” she asked. “What message do you bear?”
“I’ve come to tell you that you fight the wrong enemy,” the shadow of the witch said. “You have all along.”
“But the Dark Lord seeks to blacken the very heart of the Land. You’ve said as much yourself,” she blurted out.
Sisa’kofa nodded. “It is so.”
“Then how is the Dark Lord not our enemy?”
The sea of glowing strands stirred. “You do not listen. He may be an enemy, but he is the wrong enemy. Let the others you’ve gathered to your side face Ly’chuk and his darkness. You must ready yourself for the true danger to the world.”
“And what is that?”
The figure wafted through the air, stretching from the Gate to hover before her. One dark hand rose and brushed her cheek, a sensation that was both ice and fire on her skin. “Not what, but who,” she whispered.
“Who?” Elena echoed.
The wit’ch leaned near to her ear. There was no breath, but the answer still reached her. “You.”
Elena stumbled back in shock. “Me?”
The spirit drifted forward, following. “There is a dark tide coming, foreseen for ages past, by seers from many lands. All the threads of prophecy wrap around a single spirit—not Ly’chuk, but you, Elena Morin’stal, descendant of wit’ches and elv’in blood. You will hold the threads to the world’s fate.”
“What must I do?”
“You will face a choice, a cusp of prophecy. Your choosing will either damn or save all. That is where the true danger lies.”
“How?” Elena straightened, a flame of anger burning through her shock. “Even at the cost of my own life, I will certainly choose to save the world.”
The wit’ch smiled darkly. “There is the heart of the danger of which I speak, the reason I’ve locked a part of my spirit in stone all these ages. I have come to tell you that your choice—either way—will doom all.”
Elena stared at her tormentor, then spoke weakly. “Then what must I do?”
Sisa’kofa shook her head, stirring up the silvery nest around her figure. “I can’t answer that. All the fates whirl into the dark tide that is to come. None can see what lies beyond.”
“But . . . “
The dark figure leaned close. “Look to your heart. Look to the friends you love. Find your own path out of the darkness—a path that none but you will see.”
“How?”
The wit’ch reached forward again with an ebony-sculpted hand and touched a finger to her chest, a touch of ice and fire. “The answer is here already. You must find it . . . or you will certainly doom the world.”
Er’ril lay in a stupor of pain. Every movement ground the crushed bones of his trapped legs in fiery agony. Still, when he saw Elena stumble away from the wit’ch with despair etched into every feature, he tried to drag himself from the tumble of rocks.
Elena crumpled to her knees on the stone floor, as if crushed under the weight of the spirit’s words.
“Elena!” he cried—but she seemed deaf to him. He reached toward her, but she was too far away.
What did the wit’ch say to her?
While they had conversed, he could see their lips moving, but no words reached him or the others. Some magick muffled their speech.
Then the silence shattered away. The wit’ch spoke to Elena, but now all could hear. “What I have told you, you must keep to your heart alone. None here have heard our words.”
Elena stared up, her face a mask of fear. “How can I keep silent about this?”
Sisa’kofa knelt, reaching a hand to Elena’s tears as they started to flow. “Because you must. You know this in your own heart. You will weaken their resolve when they most need to be strong. This message is for you alone. It is a challenge you must face.”
“But how am I . . . ?” Elena glanced to the others. Her gaze settled on Er’ril. “How . . . ?” she whispered, tears flowing.
The wit’ch followed Elena’s gaze. Er’ril found himself staring into dark, ageless eyes. They seemed to ask something of him—but what?
As he tried to decipher the meaning, Sisa’kofa spoke to Elena. “The hows of the world, I don’t know. Only the certainty of the outcome.”
Elena covered her face, weeping. Sisa’kofa continued to stare at Er’ril, silently willing something from him.
Er’ril, trapped and broken under rock, did the only thing he could. “Elena,” he said softly.
She heard him this time and lowered her hands.
“I love you,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Whatever grief you bear, I will always be at your side.”
“Er’ril,” she sobbed, her heart breaking before him. “You don’t know—”
“I do know,” he cut her off. “I love you . . . and nothing else matters.”
“But—”
“I love you, and you love me. Is this not true?”
She nodded, sobbing. Er’ril had never wanted to take her in his arms more than at this moment. But he could not. He could only reach her with his words, comfort her with his heart.
“I will always love you,” he said. “Bound on my word, I am your liegeman. Bound with elv’in blood, I am your husband. But it is my heart and spirit that bind me truly to you. You are my life, and nothing will ever change this. Not now, not ever.”
Elena took a deep, shuddering breath. “Er’ril . . .” Her voice was still pained, but it had retreated from the pit of despair and agony of a moment ago.
The wit’ch rose from beside Elena. “My duty is finished. I must be set free.”
Elena wiped her eyes. “How?”
Sisa’kofa pointed to the sword abandoned on the floor. “Shadowsedge . . . it is a blade made to cut through magick, to break the strongest spells. You must take it and sever my connections to the world’s heart.”
Elena stared at the sword as if it were a poisonous snake.
“Do this, and I will grant you a final boon.”
Elena glance
d questioningly to the wit’ch, but no answer was given. The wit’ch simply motioned to the sword.
Elena took up the sword and shoved to her feet. She crossed behind the figure, to where the flow of silver strands streamed back toward the world’s heart. Elena raised the sword.
Er’ril heard a whisper from the wit’ch. “At long last . . . ,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Elena brought down the sword. As it cleaved through the silvery tangle, a bright light burst throughout the room, blinding them all for a scintillating heartbeat.
Then the world returned.
Elena stood a few paces away, still holding the sword in both her hands. The wit’ch was gone. Beyond her, the Gate remained open. The Spirit Stone still shone in the heart of the world, but now it retreated back, growing smaller until it winked away, taking its dark well. Ordinary granite filled the space.
Tol’chuk cried out.
It was only then that Er’ril realized that the arch of heartstone was gone! The entire Spirit Gate had vanished!
Elena stared up at the empty wall, exhausted. “Like the Spirit Root of the Western Reaches,” she mumbled. “The Land is pulling back. Only the shadow of the wit’ch was holding this gateway open. With Sisa’kofa gone, the Land readies itself for the final battle.”
“But the Gate,” Tol’chuk said. “It is the heart of our clans.”
“No,” Elena answered. “As long as the Land thrives, your clans will always have a heart. It exists for all lands, for all peoples. None can claim it as their sole property.”
She turned around. Her eyes fell upon Er’ril with a confused frown.
He could not fathom her expression until Meric stepped to his shoulder. “I think you can get up off the floor,” the elv’in prince said.
Er’ril looked behind him. The pile of rock had disappeared. He rolled to his feet, inspecting his limbs. There was no pain, no broken bones. Not even his clothes were torn. He glanced to the others. No one else was injured.
“All our wounds are healed!” he said, stunned.
“The final boon,” Elena said with a spark of bright relief. She crossed to his side and dropped her sword. She clasped him to her. “Er’ril!”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Hush.”
She shuddered against him.
“I love you,” he whispered, but as he stared at the blank wall, a part of him prayed it would be enough. A fear grew in him.
What did the wit’ch tell her?
21
Cassa Dar lay stretched on her bed in the uppermost tower chamber of Castle Drakk. Her eyes stared up at the raftered ceiling, but her sight was far from the swamps of her home.
Instead, she sailed over the wooded highland countryside, looking through the eyes of her swamp child. The connection was tenuous—the distances were vast, and her powers weakened as the flow of elemental energies continued their slow ebb. It was only the strength of the poison in the winged child that kept her link intact. The infant king adder at the heart of her magickal construction of moss and weed remained strong, rich in venoms.
Still, it was hard to breach the distances. It taxed her. Her castle children dragged up plates of dried fruits and boiled fish, but she could only pick at their offerings. She had remained bedridden, too exhausted to move from the room.
But she knew the importance of her mission.
Just after midday, she had taken wing along with six si’luran scouts. The shape-shifters had been assigned to scout the trails that their forces would take tomorrow. The plan was to head out just after sunrise and reach the highlands below the Fang by nightfall. From there, they would set upon Winter’s Eyrie by the following dawn.
For that to happen, their armies would need to move swiftly, with a clear path and a clearer goal. They must fall upon their enemy like a torrent of snowmelt from the heights.
But where was the enemy? What did they face?
That was her mission.
Half a world from her castle home, Cassa Dar sailed over treetops. The sun was near to setting. She banked on a warm uprising, circling higher. She was almost to her goal and dared not be spotted.
Below, the world was a sea of green. Highland forests stretched to the horizons north and south, fringing the peaks of the Teeth. But to the east, a great swath of devastation marred the beauty, as if the green sea washed up against a stripped and blackened island.
Smoke rose in columns from the green forest, marking the ruins of hamlets and farms. She had swept over one such site a short time ago: a homestead, recently razed. Embers still glowed through the pall of smoke, revealing a charnel house of horrors. Livestock had been brutally slaughtered, the remains strewn everywhere. From the air, she had spotted a cow sprawled in offal and blood, torn in half. Nor had the owners of the farm escaped the slaughter. Eight heads were piked among the ruins, women and children, an entire family, even their pet dog.
Since then, she had avoided those sites, focusing on the blackened forest ahead. From that island of death amid the green sea, a plume of black smoke sailed high into the air. It was not the smolder of the other smaller pyres—whatever cast out such smoke continued to burn fierce and deep. She knew she had no choice but to scout out what lay ahead.
Satisfied with her height, she sailed toward the black sigil in the summer sky. From the ground, she would appear no more than a speck, impossible to spot. A part of her quailed at approaching any nearer, but she flew onward, cresting higher, banking in a wide curve toward the island of dead trees.
Once she was within half a league, she could make out a wide valley stretched between the upper highlands and the lower foothills. From the organized rows of trees below, it must have once been a mighty orchard, sectioned into family farms and centered on a modestly sized township.
“Sweet Mother . . . ,” Cassa Dar whispered in her chamber room. Though she had never been here, she knew this valley. Elena had described it in detail, from the small mill by the stream to the wide pond by the town’s edge. It was the girl’s own home, Winterfell.
Cassa remained at the edges of the valley.
Like the homestead she had passed earlier, the town was a burned-out husk. Brick buildings had been scorched. Some walls still stood; others had been razed to the ground. Cassa Dar banked away, aiming for the well of dark smoke at the north end of the valley.
Below, the orchard had fared no better than the town. Not only had all the trees been denuded of leaves, but even their branches were missing. All that remained were dead trunks, stripped and bare—a valley of wooden spikes awaiting bodies to be spitted. It was a disheartening sight; she could only imagine what such a discovery would do to Elena. This had been her home.
“Poor child . . .”
She swung her gaze from the devastation below to the column of smoke at the north end of the valley, the region named Winter’s Eyrie. The destruction of the lower valley rose up toward it, a path of sorrow and pain.
She dared not get too close. Though the township and orchards seemed empty of any living thing, whatever flagged the fire below would surely be wary of prying eyes. Still, she had been sent to search for the last Weirgate. While this was surely suspicious, she could not return with just her grave misgivings. She needed proof upon which to target their armies.
So Cassa Dar urged her swamp child to higher elevations. She would have to get as close as possible without being spotted.
Ahead, the plume of smoke grew, filling the world with its foulness. On the journey from the mountains, the entire highlands had reeked of soot and woodsmoke, but here the winds were foul, smelling of burned flesh, scorched blood, and the tang of something twisted and unnatural.
As Cassa Dar climbed higher over the valley, she spotted the source of the smoke. A great pit lay blasted into the land. She swung closer. The hole, circular in shape, had to be two leagues across. From what she could see of the edges of the monstrous pit, the hole seemed to descend in giant stairsteps, huge tiers gouged from the land, dropping one aft
er another into the ground.
Whatever the purpose of the pit, its construction was still under way. From the smoke, fires would suddenly flare, shooting high into the sky. Echoes of pounding and muffled explosions rose from within the column of smoke, sounding impossibly far away.
How deep is this pit?
Cassa Dar edged around the periphery of the dark construction. The outer circles of the pit were as empty as the orchard valley, but screams rose on the winds, amid howls and the clanging of steel. She sensed movement deep below: a churning of the smoke, darker shapes lumbering through the pall, limned in the flashes of fire.
The hole was clearly not empty.
She braved a closer pass, determined it would be her last. She would report what she discovered here and leave the decisions to the war council.
As she swept nearer, searching the heart of the smoky pit, she sensed a presence swell before her. Towering ahead, the column of darkness took on a new form: It sprouted black wings, and a neck stretched forth out of the darkness. Fiery eyes opened above a smoky beak. A dark malignancy searched out.
Cassa Dar knew better than to tarry. She dove away, sensing that to be spotted by that presence would be certain doom. She fell back into the desolate orchard valley, dropping among the bare trunks, skirting and winging with the momentum of her dive.
Trunks flashed past.
She dodged right and left, then rolled into the cover of a streambed. She flew just above the sludgy, muddy waters, keeping the banks of the stream between her and the smoky searcher. At any moment, she expected a monstrous black claw to snatch her away. Even hundreds of leagues away, she knew she was not safe from the evil. If caught, both child and creator would be destroyed.
Fueled by fear and aided by the innate skill of her creation, she winged down the stream, sweeping at impossible speeds, a prayer on her lips.
Then the stream emptied into a millpond, and the banks fell away. Exposed, Cassa Dar rolled and searched behind her. She was surprised at how far she had traveled. The smoky shape was only a smudge on the horizon.
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