Wit'ch Storm

by James Clemens

  The dismissive words sagged the skinny brother’s shoulders and faded the light in his eyes. “You’re probably right,” he said sadly. “Still, I shall see if I can collect one of its petals before the others all get to them.”

  Joach noticed the brothers had clustered around the bole of the huge tree and were bent reverently collecting the small fallen petals.

  “Come,” Greshym said to Joach as the other left their side. The darkmage turned his back and stomped his way through the garden. “Follow me,” he ordered.

  Joach found his feet following, not because of any spell, but simply because he did not know what else to do. It was clear that the darkmage still thought Joach was his slave, a thrall to his words and commands. The man was mostly blind to Joach’s presence and did not seem to notice his new hesitations or extra movements.

  As he walked, a fleeting thought to call out to the other brothers and expose the snake among them passed through his mind. But restraining thoughts kept his tongue silent. Would they believe him? The others all thought him a brain-addled fool. Who would believe that not only a revered member of their order, but also its very leader, the Praetor, were under control of the Gul’gotha? And even if he could convince them, what if there were other darkmages unknown to Joach? If the Praetor, the head of the Order, was under the Dark Lord’s black dominion, surely there might be others. For his risk, would Joach only succeed in chopping off the head of the weed, leaving the foul root intact? Then would anything be truly gained if he spoke out? These worries kept his voice silent.

  Nothing would be gained by speaking—at least not yet!

  A different plan formed in his head as he shuffled behind the white robe. His legs had weakened from starvation, and it was easy to mimic his usual dull pace. What if . . . ? The more he pondered his plan, the firmer his resolve became. Greshym only gave Joach glancing attention, barely seeing him most of the time. And Joach, trapped in his head these many moons, had learned what was expected of him and how he should act. But could he truly pull it off? Could he masquerade as the spell-cast slave of the darkmage? And by doing so, perhaps learn more about Greshym’s schemes? Joach could not answer this last question.

  Even if he learned nothing, he could always explore ways to escape the island. But in his heart, Joach knew he would never use that escape route—at least not alone.

  He pictured his sister Elena’s face: freckles on her nose, eyes crinkled as she concentrated. He had no idea where among all the lands of Alasea his sister might be now, but he knew Elena was headed to A’loa Glen. If Joach could not find her and warn her away, he could at least learn in secret what traps were being laid here and try to thwart them.

  So Joach continued after the bent back of the darkmage. He knew his best chance at helping his sister lay in deceit, in masquerading as a slave. He would fight fire with fire, deception with deception. As Greshym and the Praetor wore false faces, so would he!

  Elena, he whispered in his skull, I’ll not fail you again.

  For a heartbeat, the purple flower appeared in his mind’s eye, glowing much more brightly in his memory than it had in reality. Was it mere chance that had freed him? Or like the black snakes that hid among the white folds of A’loa Glen, were there perhaps allies of the light—maybe others who might help him—hidden in the black shadows?

  With Greshym’s back turned, Joach glanced furtively around the courtyard. Shadows and sunlight danced along the paths of the decaying garden. The bright and the dark mingled together.

  If there were others out there who could aid him, how would Joach be able to recognize them in this play of sunlight and shadow?

  Whom could he trust?

  Somewhere beyond the high walls of the Edifice, a gull cried a lonely call across the empty sea. The cry echoed in Joach’s chest.

  In this matter, he knew he was alone.

  12

  THE GULL’S CRY swept over the waves toward where Sy-wen’s small head bobbed in the gentle surf. Her eyes followed the bird’s flight across the blue sky. As her webbed fingers swept back and forth in the salty water, keeping her stationary in the sea, she imagined the various landscapes the gull had flown over. She pictured towering peaks, forests of dark shadows, and empty meadows wider than the sea. Tales were spoken of such places, but she had never seen any of them.

  She craned her neck back to view the spread of sky and cloud, her green hair floating like a halo of kelp around her. The gull disappeared to a dot in the sun’s glare. Sighing, Sy-wen turned her attention back to the churning white surf where the sea met the shore of the nearby island in an angry rumble. White froth spewed high in the afternoon sunlight, and black rocks glistened like the backs of whales while over it all, the ocean roared as it attacked the stone island, as if angry at the interruption of its blue expanse.

  Sy-wen thrilled at the war of sea and rock. It touched something deep inside of her, something she could not name. She studied the island. Her eyes filled with the views of its green-draped peaks, of its cascading falls of spring-fed water, of its arched stones of windblown rock. Beyond this one island, others could be seen like the humped backs of great sea beasts marching toward the horizon.

  Archipelago.

  Even the word that named the maze of islands set her heart to beating. Here was mystery and lands unknown—forbidden territory for the mer’ai. Only the banished of her people walked those broken shores and sharp rocks.

  As she kicked her powerful legs to hold her head above water, she felt the familiar gentle brush of a warm nose against the back of her thigh. Sadly, she spread her legs to allow Conch, her mother’s mount, to slide under her. Once she was seated on his familiar back, Conch arched up, raising Sy-wen higher. Soon only her webbed toes still touched the sea. From atop Conch’s back, she could see past the churning barrier reef to the interior of the island. Above the foam and spray, she spied the towers and straight-edged buildings of the lan’dwellers, those of her folk banished from the sea so long ago.

  She raised her arms wide and caught the sea breezes in her splayed hands. How would it be to swim through the air like a gull, to fly among those towers and peer in the windows at those who lived life at the sea’s edge? Did they miss the oceans and cry all night for their long-lost home, as Mother said?

  In front of her, Conch’s head surfaced. The jade seadragon’s scaled neck sparked, scintillating in the sunlight. He huffed explosively as the scaled flaps that blocked his nose opened, expelling old air. He rolled one large black eye toward his rider, blinking his translucent lid open and closed.

  Sy-wen shrank under his gaze.

  Though not bonded to the dragon as her mother was, Sy-wen had been raised with the giant and had learned his moods. Conch was frustrated with her. He hated it when she swam close to the stone islands that dotted the sea. Yet from the relieved tremble in his throat as he rid himself of his stale air, she also sensed the great beast’s worry and concern.

  She rubbed a hand along his long sleek neck, scratching the sensitive nest of scales by his ear holes. Her touch calmed his irritation. She smiled as he turned away. Conch had always been such a worrier. Even when she was a child, he had always watched over her, a constant shadow as she grew into a young woman.

  Yet as much as it pained her, Conch’s guardianship would soon end. Sy-wen must soon bond her own dragon and leave Conch behind. Having already begun her woman’s bleed, she was no longer a child. For the past ten moons, immature seadragons had already been flocking to her, drawn by each moon’s virginal bleed—a flurry of whites, a scattering of reds, even a few jades like Conch. But she had fought them all off. As an elder’s daughter, she knew her duty and must soon choose, but she was not ready. Not yet.

  Tears suddenly rose to her eyes. She did not want to lose Conch, not ever—not even to bond one of the rare blacks, the mightiest of the seadragons.

  After her father had died, Conch had become her guardian—and her companion. She could hardly remember her true father, only a vague
memory of laughing eyes and warm, strong arms. Even her mother, too involved with her duties as an elder, seldom left their clan’s home inside the belly of the giant leviathan, the whalelike creature that housed her family’s clan of mer’ai. Without siblings, Sy-wen learned quickly how empty the oceans could be. With only Conch at her side, she had wandered the seamounts and the elaborate coral reefs, always alone.

  Lately, she had found herself lured to the islands. Whether it was some growing unease as her womanhood and its responsibilities beckoned, or simply a swelling dissatisfaction with the empty sea, Sy-wen could not say. She had no words for the continuing draw that pulled at her heart.

  Maybe it was simply her stubborn nature rebelling against her mother’s restrictions. After her first excursion near the islands, her mother had vehemently forbidden her to venture near the Archipelago again, warning against the fisherfolk with their spears, telling tales of how the banished, angry at the loss of their true home, would lure mer’ai to their deaths on the rocks. She had never seen her mother so disturbed: voice cracking, eyes red, almost wild. As fury and frustration had choked her mother’s words, Sy-wen had only nodded in agreement, eyes lowered in obeisance, acting properly scolded and chagrined. But once her mother was gone, Sy-wen had simply dismissed her warnings.

  No words, not even angered ones, could sunder the lines that had so snugly hooked Sy-wen’s heart.

  So, against her mother’s will, she often snuck away from the leviathan and swam alone to the edge of the Archipelago. There, she would drift in the currents, studying the islands carved by wind and sea. Curious, she would watch for any signs of the banished, one time even swimming within sight of one of their fishing boats.

  But always, as now, Conch would eventually follow her scent and venture forth to collect her up, carrying her back to where their leviathan home swam slowly in the Great Deep.

  The seadragon, loving Sy-wen as he did, kept silent about her wanderings—not even telling her mother. Sy-wen knew how hard it was on the sweet giant to keep a secret from his bondmate. Recognizing his pain, she limited her visits to the islands to only occasional excursions. Still—she glanced behind her and stared at the island one last time as Conch began to swing around—she would be back.

  Sy-wen rubbed the dragon’s neck, telling him she was ready to leave.

  Conch snorted the last of the dead air from his series of lungs. Under her, the seadragon’s chest swelled as he drank in the fresh breezes, preparing to dive.

  Before submerging, Sy-wen slipped loose the stem from one of the air pods at her waist and bit off its glued end. It tasted of salt and seaweed. She inhaled to test its ripeness. The air was still fine. Even if the pod had staled, there was no danger. Sy-wen knew Conch would let her use the siphon at the base of his neck. Though tradition allowed only a bondmate to share a dragon’s air, Conch had never refused Sy-wen.

  Sy-wen slipped her feet into the folds behind his front legs, and Conch tightened the footholds to secure her.

  Satisfied, she tapped Conch with the heel of her hand three times, signaling she was ready to go. A rumble shook through the great beast and his form sank under the waves, taking Sy-wen with him. Just as the water swamped her face, Sy-wen’s inner lids snapped up to protect her eyes from the water’s salt. The translucent lids also sharpened her eyesight in the silty water.

  After the rush of swirling bubbles cleared, leaving only a few stragglers chasing them into the Deep, Sy-wen stared in awe at the full sight of the creature she rode. From nose to tail, Conch stretched longer than six men. “Dragon” was the mer’ai’s word for the great beasts who shared their world under the waves, and though the seadragons had their own name for themselves, Sy-wen found her people’s title most fitting. Wings spread out to either side as Conch stretched his forelimbs wide. Gentle but powerful movements rippled through the wings as the dragon sailed through the sea. His snaking tail and clawed rear legs acted as skilled rudders, guiding them in a slow curve around the lee of the islands and heading toward the open waters.

  Slow undulations swept through the length of Conch’s body as his form glided deeper. Schools of fish darted in unison to either side of his flowing body, splashes of blues and greens. Below, rows of reefs marched under the wings of the dragon, dotted with the glowing yellow and bloodred blooms of anemones. At the fringes of the reef, tall fronds of kelp waved as they passed.

  Sy-wen stared at the massed coral below her. It was like flying, she thought, soaring above distant mountain ranges. She smiled, biting on her air pod’s stem. Her eyes grew hazy as she watched the seafloor flow under her. A patch of clouds far overhead blotched the landscape in patches of shadow and filtered sunlight. She dreamed of flying in the sky with Conch.

  Suddenly Conch twisted sharply in the water, diving deep toward the peaks of coral. Startled, Sy-wen almost lost her lips’ hold on her air spout. She quickly searched for what had startled the dragon. There was little for a seadragon to fear in the wide Deep.

  Except . . .

  Sy-wen craned her neck up. Far above her, the shapes that she had thought were clouds shadowing the ocean floor were actually the bloated bellies of boats. She quickly scanned the barnacled bottoms of the fisherfolk’s vessels. Seven—no, eight boats! Sy-wen did not have to be told what this meant. A solitary boat usually just carried pole and net fishers: nothing to fear. This many—Sy-wen’s heart climbed to her throat—this many boats meant hunters!

  Sy-wen clung to Conch’s side as he wove his wings and body so deep that his belly scratched the sharp peaks of the reef. The waters near the islands, though, were too shallow. They would be easily spotted by the ships above. Conch struggled to find deeper water. From the corner of her eye, Sy-wen spotted trails of blood flowing back along their trail from the dragon’s coral-wounded belly.

  Drawn by his blood, as if by magick, schools of sharks appeared from the black waters. In only a few heartbeats, monstrous rocksharks, longer than three men, glided from dark valleys in the reef.

  Sy-wen realized what Conch was trying to do. He had purposely wounded himself, luring the larger predators from their hidden homes, trying to lose himself among the more common denizens of the reef.

  Conch slowed his glide through the water, letting the other predators within his shadow. He pulled hard once with his wings, then folded them under his body, narrowing his silhouette as he flowed through the water. Only the slow undulations of his body now propelled them forward.

  Sy-wen risked a glance upward. A huge rockshark, with a snap of its large finned tail, swept just over her head. Sy-wen leaned down closer to Conch’s neck. The shark would not dare risk attacking until he knew the dragon was near death, but the hulking rockshark was not the true threat here.

  Farther overhead, the last of the boats glided past. Staring over her shoulder, Sy-wen slowly expelled the air from her sore lungs as the bellies of the hunting fleet faded behind her. They had made it!

  Sy-wen sat straighter on Conch’s back and rubbed a hand along his neck. Tears of relief mixed their salt with the seawater’s. Her silly curiosities had almost killed the gentle giant. A new resolve grew in her breast. Where words had failed, fear and danger had finally managed to dig free the stubborn hooks in her heart.

  Never again. She would never return to these islands.

  Her mother’s words had been wise, and like a child, she had dismissed that good counsel! Sy-wen’s hands clenched to fists. Maybe it was time to look toward her approaching womanhood with a more open heart. Maybe it was time she grew up and looked at the world with the wisdom of an adult, instead of the dreaming eyes of a child.

  She glanced back as the last of the boats drifted away from them. Never again!

  Suddenly, below them, the seafloor exploded upward, swallowing them in a storm of silt and sand. Conch’s body contorted violently under her. The scaled folds that secured her feet spasmed open. Sy-wen was thrown from Conch’s back. Her air siphon ripped from her teeth as she tumbled through the water.<
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  The sea gagged her throat as she swallowed a mouthful of salty water. In the blizzard of sand, she struggled to resecure the stem of her air hose. She must not lose her air. As her body slowed its tumble, instinct drew her fumbling fingers to the pod fastened to her waist belt and felt along its surface until she discovered the base of the stem. Thank the Mother, it was still intact. She hurriedly followed its length and pulled its end to her lips.

  She drank the air hungrily while using her webbed hands to hold herself in place. Able to breathe again, she could now think. What had happened?

  Swirling sand obscured her vision. She swam backward against a mild current, letting the flow of the water clear the silt around her as she kicked and paddled. Where was Conch?

  Suddenly, like the sun pushing through a break in the clouds, the storm of sand settled enough for Sy-wen to get a quick glimpse near the heart of the storm. Conch, his long green body coiled up on itself, struggled savagely with something, his legs slashing, his neck twisting and contorting. It looked almost as if he were fighting himself. Then Sy-wen saw Conch’s adversary. It was wrapped tight around his body, and the more Conch fought, the tighter his opponent gripped him.

  A net! A snare set in the sand to catch him!

  As Conch struggled, a single black eye rolled in Sy-wen’s direction and fixed on her. For a brief moment, he stopped his struggle, hanging still in the tangled net. Flee, he seemed to call at her, I am lost.

  Then the sand swallowed her dear friend away.

  No! Sy-wen swam into the sandstorm, paddling fiercely. She had a knife and a stunner at her waist. She would not abandon Conch. She dug and clawed her way through the clouds of silt. It seemed forever that she fought the murk. Then, suddenly, she was free, back in sunlit waters, the wall of swirling sand at her back. She twisted around. She had swum through the entire cloud of silt. But where was Conch?

  Above, movement caught her eye. She glanced up and saw her friend bundled in a tight ball in the clinging net, being hauled and drawn toward the surface. The bellies of the boats were now clustered in a circle around the ascending dragon.